oc 


DOWNLAND   ECHOES 


DOWNLAND    ECHOES 

BY     VICTOR     L.     WHITECHURCH 


DUFFIELD    AND    COMPANY 
NEW  YORK 


Printed  in  Great  Britain  ly 
Milling  and  Sons,  Ltd.,  Guild  ford  and  Juher 


To  all  who  love  the  open  Downland,  the 
wide  expanses,  the  sweet  hill  breezes,  the 
glow  of  fair  sunsets  and  drifting  clouds  : 

To  all  who  love  the  sturdy  folk  of  the 
Downland — in  clustering  villages  remote 
from  the  outer  world,  in  lonely  upland 
dwellings, 

I  DEDICATE  THIS  BOOK. 


2138853 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGR 

I.  THE  POACHER  -  ••       9 

II.  RETICENCE        -  -     25 

III.  "BLOODS"        -  -     37 

IV.  THE  CONCERT  -  -     4-9 
V.  MATTERS  OF  MONEY    -  -     6l 

VI.  A  VETERAN      -  -     75 

VII.  THE  MEADOW  ...  -     89 

VIII.  THE  SAINT'S  MOUND   -  -     97 

IX.  THE  CURFEW   -  -  105 

X.  THE  DANCE     -  -  115 

XL  PREJUDICES       -  -   125 

XII.  A  LITTLE  CHILD'S  FUNERAL  -                           -  137 

XIII.  THE  BISHOP'S  VISIT  -  145 

XIV.  MICHAELMAS  HIRING    -  -  155 
XV.  THE  VILLAGE  OVER  THE  DOWNS  •  167 

XVI.  THE  "Top  o'  THE  WORLD"  -                          -  177 

XVII.  THE  CORONATION  -  189 

XVIII.  PLACE  NAMES  -  -  205 

XIX.  DARK  DAYS     -  -  219 

XX.  THE  AFTERMATH          -  -                          -  229 


Vll 


THE  POACHER 


DOWNLAND    ECHOES 

i 

THE  POACHER 

THERE  were  two  principal  types  in  the  village. 
First,  men  with  thin  faces  and  noses  and  dark 
hair  and  eyes — eyes  that  were  set  near  each 
other  and  did  not  easily  look  you  straight  in 
the  face.  Perhaps — indeed,  most  likely — their 
ancestors  were  Britons ;  Britons  who  were  never 
altogether  driven  westward  by  the  invader. 

The  other  men  were  fair  of  hair  and  fresh- 
faced — faces  inclining  to  roundness,  with  big 
noses  and  light  eyes.  Anglo-Saxon  these. 
Men  that  got  louder  and  more  quarrelsome 
than  the  dark-faced  men  when  drunk — if  so  be 
that  they  drank,  but  men  you  would  sooner 
quarrel  with,  all  the  same — that  is,  if  your 
quarrel  were  not  to  be  a  lasting  one. 

Tom  Horner  was  of  the  thin-faced  variety. 
He  wore  little  side- whiskers,  and  the  rest  of 
his  face  he  shaved  about  twice  a  week,  so  he 
looked  darker  some  days  than  others.  He  was 
tallish,  as  men  went,  and  spare.  His  dark 

11 


12  DOWNLAND  ECHOES 

eyes  were  particularly  close  together  and  his 
brow  lowering. 

He  advertised  himself  as  professing  two 
trades,  and  everybody  knew  he  was  an  expert 
at  a  third.  The  two  trades  openly  acknow- 
ledged were  those  of  well-digging  and 
thatching ;  his  more  exciting  accomplishment 
was  poaching.  And  no  man  ever  knew  which 
of  the  three  was  most  profitable  to  him,  though 
most  men  who  were  acquainted  with  him 
guessed  the  third  was. 

The  well-digging  and  thatching  were,  of 
course,  executed  in  public.  The  third 
profession  was,  equally  naturally,  followed  in 
strict  privacy  and  at  uncertain  hours.  More- 
over, Tom  Horner  was  as  taciturn  as  befitted 
his  unlawful  craft,  except  at  such  times  when 
he  had  freely  imbibed  malt  liquor.  And  even 
then,  he  never  gave  away  any  really  useful 
information. 

To  see  him  coming  sauntering  from  the 
Downs  in  the  early  morning  was  always 
suspicious.  Yet  if  one  of  his  two  sworn 
enemies,  of  whom  more  anon,  chanced  to  meet 
him,  as  if  by  accident,  and,  attracted  by  a 
bulge  in  his  capacious  coat,  enjoined  him 
incontinently  to  disgorge,  the  said  enemy — who 
was  customarily  arrayed  in  blue — would,  as 
likely  as  not,  be  confronted  with  a  pocketful 


THE  POACHER  13 

of  mushrooms,  much  to  his  discomfiture, 
while  Tom  Horner  would  invite  him  to  "  taake 
a  few  on  'em  hoame  for  your  missus.  She 
wants  summat  to  cheer  her  up  at  mealtimes 
wi'  your  ugly  face  in  front  o'  her,  I  reckon  I" 

The  man  in  blue,  inwardly  swearing,  knew 
perfectly  well  that  Tom  Horner  had  not  been 
on  the  Downs  before  sunrise  for  the  sole 
purpose  of  picking  mushrooms.  Yet  there 
was  no  trace  of  hares  about  him. 

Nevertheless,  before  the  day  was  out,  there 
would  probably  be  more  than  one  monetary 
transaction  in  unlawful  game.  And  therein 
lay  one  of  the  hidden  mysteries  of  the  country- 
side. William  Budd,  that  fresh,  Saxon-faced 
man-of-all-work  who,  honest  as  his  open 
countenance,  invariably  denounced  Tom 
Horner  as  "  no  good  of,"  when  he  went  in  the 
evening  after  the  day's  work  to  "  tidy  up  "  the 
garden  of  "  that  'ere  lady  from  Lunnon  "  who 
rented  a  cottage  in  the  village,  came  down 
for  week-ends,  and  wrote  occasional  articles  on 
country  life  for  magazines — articles  which 
were  utterly  misleading,  because,  as  they  said 
with  truth,  "she  doan't  know  nought  about 
we  folk " — William  Budd  would  look  up 
from  his  job  of  planting  out  pot  flowers 
and  say  artlessly  to  the  said  "lady  from 
Lunnon " : 


14  DOWNLAND  ECHOES 

"  I  suppose  you  'oodn't  like  to  buy  a  hare, 
miss  ?  I  had  one  give  ma  to-daily — a  nice  un. 
T'ent  much  use  to  me,  and  you  can  have  un 
cheap." 

And  the  Lunnon  lady,  whose  knowledge 
of  country  life  was  so  profound  that  it  ran  to 
articles  delineating  the  extreme  simplicity  of 
the  natives,  would  very  likely  ask : 

"  How  did  you  get  it,  Budd  ?  I  hope  you 
haven't  been  poaching  ? " 

For  even  she  knew  that  hare-snaring  was 
unlawful. 

To  which  Budd,  indignation  in  his  honest 
blue  eyes  at  such  suspicion : 

"  Me  go  a-poachin' !  Not  me,  miss.  I 
doan't  hold  wi'  sich  waiiys.  But  you  see, 
miss,  a  man  I  knows  over  at  Binford  goes  a 
beatin'  when  the  Squire  there  has  a  big  shoot 
and  they  generally  gi'es  him  a  hare  or  two — 
and  sometimes  he  gi'es  me  one  on  'em.  'Tis 
that  way,  miss.  How  much  ?  Well,  they're 
fetchin'  about  three  and  six,  I've  heered — but 
you  can  have  un  for  harf  a  crown." 

And  William  Budd  spends  an  extra  sixpence 
"  up  at  public  "  that  night,  while  Tom  Horner 
looks  thoughtfully  at  a  florin  to  make  sure  it's 
a  "  good  un." 

Others  purchased  the  surreptitious  hare 
without  such  evasion  on  the  part  o  the  seller. 


THE  POACHER  15 

The  wooden-faced  landlord  of  the  Blue  Lion 
knew  to  a  nicety  the  dozen  or  so  within  his 
circle  of  acquaintances  who  would  pay  cash 
down,  ready-money,  if  moderate  amount,  for 
a  hare — and  wouldn't  expect  to  fetch  it  or 
have  it  delivered  by  one  of  his  youngsters  till 
after  dark  was  fallen.  And  Tom  Horner  was 
a  good  customer  of  his  —  and  friendship 
demanded  that  one  should  do  good  customers 
good  turns  sometimes. 

The  other  sworn  enemy  of  Tom  Horner 's 
was  one  Godfrey  Wheeler.  Godfrey  Wheeler 
was  a  man  of  money.  He  was  true  country 
born  and  bred,  had  farmed  once  upon  a  time,  but 
had  long  since  given  it  up  to  live  an  independent 
life  in  the  village.  He  was  the  only  man  in 
Little  Marpleton  who  purchased  a  game 
licence — his  name  could  be  seen,  in  solitary 
state,  hung  up  in  the  lists  at  the  tiny  post 
office.  And  he  rented  the  shooting  of  the 
Downs  from  the  three  farmers  who  were 
occupiers  there. 

No  more  kindly-hearted  man  existed  in  the 
village  than  Godfrey  Wheeler.  His  was  an 
extremely  generous  nature,  and  he  had  that 
rare  virtue  of  not  wishing  his  left  hand  to  pos- 
sess any  knowledge  of  the  doings  of  his  right. 
Paason  was  often  his  intermediary,  and  only 
Paason  knew,  for  example,  how  it  was  that 


16  DOWNLAND  ECHOES 

Widow  Bunce's  rent  was  always  forthcoming 
when  due,  or  who  provided  a  new  donkey-cart 
for  poor  old  Peter  Smith  when  that  worthy 
met  with  an  accident  and  drove  into  the  ditch. 

But,  where  one  particular  subject  was  con- 
cerned, the  milk  of  human  kindness  turned 
sour  in  the  hreast  of  Godfrey  Wheeler.  In  his 
eyes  the  very  worst  crime  that  the  Prince  of 
Darkness  had  ever  invented  to  menace  the 
salvation  of  humanity  was  the  crime  of  poach- 
ing. Had  he  been  a  magistrate  he  would  have 
liked  to  have  sentenced  the  man  who  shot  a 
pheasant  by  night,  or  snared  a  hare,  to  a  flog- 
ging. Had  he  been  a  judge,  and  had  the  law 
allowed  him,  he  would  probably  have  rejoiced 
to  put  on  the  black  cap,  to  sentence  the 
culprit  to  be  hanged  by  the  neck  till  he  was 
dead,  and,  when  concluding  with  the  awful 
phrase  "  and  may  God  have  mercy  upon  your 
soul,"  have  very  much  doubted  the  efficacy  of 
such  a  prayer. 

He  was  inexorable  where  poaching  was  con- 
cerned. No  one — not  even  Paiison — might 
say  a  good  word  for  Tom  Horner.  The  latter 
was  the  black  sheep  of  the  village,  the  disgrace 
to  the  community,  and  he  spared  no  pains  to 
hunt  him  down.  He  considered  that,  before 
aught  else,  it  was  the  duty  of  the  unfortunate 
Jarvis — the  local  policeman  aforementioned — 


THE  POACHER  17 

continually  to  be  at  the  heels  of  Tom  Horner,  to 
know  his  goings  out  and  his  comings  in,  to  con- 
centrate every  art  of  his  profession  to  frustrate 
the  machinations  of  this  notorious  criminal,  or, 
better  still,  to  catch  him  in  the  act  or  with 
game  in  his  pockets.  He  led  Jarvis  such  a 
life,  threatening  to  report  him  for  negligence, 
sending  for  him  when  he  was  off  duty  to  im- 
part a  string  of  suspicions  or  information,  that 
the  wretched  policeman,  who  wanted  to  qualify 
for  sergeant's  stripes  and  naturally  longed  for 
a  burglary,  or  arson,  or  something  that  would 
really  bring  him  into  prominence,  and  who 
could  not — who  dared  not — offend  him,  nur- 
tured an  extreme  hatred  of  the  cause  of  all  his 
worries — to  wit,  Tom  Horner  himself. 

Tom  Horner  knew,  perfectly  well,  the  aims 
and  objects  of  his  two  enemies.  But,  to  his 
credit,  he  did  not  bear  them  malice.  At  least, 
not  entirely.  He  was  a  true  sportsman  and 
quite  content  to  take  his  chances.  He  knew  it 
was  the  duty  of  Jarvis  to  catch  him,  and  the 
duty — or  pleasure — of  Godfrey  Wheeler  to 
prosecute  him  if  caught,  and  the  duty  of  the 
magistrates  to  inflict  punishment.  According 
to  his  code,  he  did  not  grudge  a  man  for  doing 
his  duty.  According  to  the  same  code,  his  duty 
was  to  outwit  his  enemies  and  snare  hares. 
But  what  he  did  object  to,  especially,  was 

2 


18  DOWNLAND  ECHOES 

the  temper  of  Jarvis.  He  longed  to  thrash 
the  policeman — or  try  to  thrash  him  in  fair 
fight.  But  a  policeman  is  no  ordinary  man,  and 
you  can't  put  your  fist  in  his  face  with  impunity. 

In  the  course  of  the  continual  warfare  there 
stood  out  four  victories:  one  for  Godfrey 
Wheeler,  one  for  Jarvis,  and  two  for  Tom 
Horner.  And  Tom  Horner  always  considered 
that  his  two  victories  were  the  greatest  of 
all,  more  especially  as  he  continued  plying 
his  craft  before,  between,  and  after  them. 
Whereupon  the  facts  shall  be  laid  bare. 

Godfrey  Wheeler  caught  Tom  Horner  in 
the  very  act,  saw  him  take  the  hare  out  of 
the  cunningly  laid  snare.  Watched  him, 
rejoicing,  from  within  the  edge  of  a  copse 
on  the  Downs.  Emerged  triumphant  to 
confront  him.  There  was  no  getting  away 
from  it,  no  possible  defence,  and  Tom  Horner 
handed  over  the  defunct  animal  and  said  : 

"  I  suppose  you  means  to  have  me  into 
Derringford  over  this  job,  Muster  Wheeler  ?" 

"  You're  right.  I  certainly  do,"  replied  the 
other.  To  "  have  a  man  into  Derringford " 
was  the  vernacular  for  haling  him  before  the 
bench  of  magistrates  in  that  town. 

So  Tom  Horner  simply  turned  on  his  heel 
without  another  word,  and  strode  down  into 
the  village,  thinking  lurid  thoughts.  It  was 


THE  POACHER  19 

not  being  "  had  into  Derringford "  that 
angered  him,  but  the  fact  that  Godfrey 
Wheeler  had  got  the  better  of  him  on  his  own 
particular  stage  of  action — the  Downs.  Had 
he  been  caught  with  bulging  pockets  it  would 
not  have  mattered  so  much,  but  to  be  seen 
by  his  enemy  in  the  very  act  was  mortifying 
beyond  words. 

Not  that  he  did  not  use  words.  He  did.  He 
used  them  very  freely  on  the  person  on  whom 
he  considered  Providence  had  specially  designed 
them  to  be  used — to  wit,  his  wife.  And  ended 
by  throwing  things  at  her  across  the  table. 
There  was  also  a  scene  in  the  taproom  of  the 
Blue  Lion  that  evening.  Someone  had  the 
temerity  to  remark : 

"  They  says  Muster  Wheeler's  goin'  to  have 
a  dinner  party  to-morrow — got  a  hare  what 
wants  eatinV 

After  forcibly  expelling  Tom  Horner  the 
landlord  picked  up  the  pieces  of  the  quart  pot 
and  order  was  restored. 

For,  of  course,  all  the  village  knew  about  it. 
Godfrey  Wheeler  had  gone  down  the  street, 
hare  in  hand,  rejoicing  in  explanations.  In  the 
warmth  of  his  glee,  on  meeting  Paason,  he  had 
disbursed,  without  being  asked  for  it,  twenty 
shillings  to  the  sick  and  needy  fund. 

When  the  case  came  before  the  magistrates 


20  DOWNLAND  ECHOES 

Tom  Horner  appeared  in  his  Sunday  best, 
clean-shaven,  and  nosegay  in  buttonhole.  The 
case  did  not  take  very  long  to  decide.  The 
presiding  magistrate  was  a  local  tradesman, 
secretly  sympathising  with  the  delinquent — 
being  of  radical  and  anti-game  law  tendencies, 
but  had  to  do  something.  He  imposed  a  fine 
of  one  pound  and  three  and  sixpence  costs — or 
the  alternative  of  fourteen  days. 

Godfrey  Wheeler  was  disgusted.  "  Ought 
to  have  had  three  months  without  an  option," 
he  murmured.  When  Tom  Horner  said  he 
had  no  money  Jarvis  took  courage,  expecting 
a  fortnight's  relaxation.  But  the  magistrate 
was  tender-hearted,  and  listened  to  Horner 's 
request  for  time. 

"  Very  well,"  he  said, "  we'll  give  you  a  week 
to  pay — but  you'll  have  to  go  to  prison  if  you 
don't.  Next  case." 

Tom  Horner  stepped  out  of  the  dock, 
touching  his  forehead  to  the  majesty  of  the  law, 
smiled  affably  at  Godfrey  Wheeler,  and  put 
his  tongue  in  his  cheek  and  winked  at  Jarvis 
when  he  passed  him  on  his  way  out  of  the 
court. 

Jarvis,  of  course,  was  charged  with  the 
collection  of  the  money  at  the  end  of  the 
allotted  week  of  grace.  He  put  his  handcuffs 
in  his  pocket  before  paying  the  call,  and  antici- 


THE  POACHER  21 

pated  a  journey  to  Derringford  with  Homer 
as  his  prisoner.  For  he  knew — as  everyone  else 
knew — that  Horner  had  not  done  a  stroke  of 
well-digging  or  thatching  all  the  week. 

The  poacher  received  him  with  an  amiable 
smile. 

"  Oh  !  got  to  pay  up,  have  I  ?" 

"  Or  else  go  to  gaol." 

"  Who'd  taake  me  there  !" 

"  I  would,"  said  Jar  vis,  putting  his  hand 
into  his  pocket  and  feeling  for  the  fetters  in 
case  of  the  resistance  he  anticipated — and 
hoped  for. 

"  Ah !  T'ood  be  a  pity  to  give  'ee  all  that 
trouble.  How  much  be  I  to  pay  ?" 

"  One  pound  three  and  sixpence." 

"All  right." 

To  the  policeman's  disappointment  he  pro- 
duced a  handful  of  silver  and  counted  the 
money. 

"  Now  you  get  out  o'  my  house,  wull  'ee, 
please  ?  I  be  a  respectable  man  and  doant 
want  the  likes  o'  you  hanging  about." 

That  evening  Tom  Horner  was  leaning 
over  his  gate,  smoking,  at  peace  with  the 
world,  when  William  Budd  came  up  street. 

"  Hullo,  Tom,"  he  said,  "  you  be  still  here 
then  ?" 

"  Ah  !"  ejaculated  Tom. 


22  DOWNLAND  ECHOES 

"  Paid  up,  have  'ee  ? " 

Tom  nodded — and  beamed.  William's  curi- 
osity was  aroused,  and  he  asked  a  direct 
question. 

"  How  did  'ee  get  the  money  ?" 

Tom  Horner  thought  for  a  minute.  Then 
he  took  his  pipe  from  his  mouth  and  said, 
slowly  and  deliberately : 

"  How  did  I  get  the  money  ?  Why,  I 
snared  a  few  moare  o'  old  Wheeler's  hares  and 
sold  'em.  That's  how  I  got  it.  Reckon  he 
had  to  pay — not  me  /" 

His  was  the  victory,  and  in  his  elation  he  did 
not  mind  men  knowing  the  strategy  by  which 
he  had  achieved  it.  Besides,  he  knew  it  would 
not  be  long  before  Godfrey  Wheeler  himself 
heard  the  story. 

His  second  victory  was  even  more  to  his 
liking,  though  less  subtle.  Jarvis  scored, 
caught  him  fairly  with  his  pockets  full  of  game, 
and  had  him  before  the  magistrates.  Jarvis 
stood  in  the  witness-box,  avenging  Nemesis, 
pocket-book  in  hand,  and,  commencing  with 
the  perfectly  untrue  but  official  formula  "From 
information  received,"  proved  himself  an  ex- 
ceedingly astute  guardian  of  the  law,  taking 
great  pains  to  prevent  anyone  thinking  what 
was  really  the  case,  that  the  capture  was  a  fluke. 
This  time  there  was  no  option  of  a  fine.  Tom 


THE  POACHER  23 

Homer  had  to  go  to  prison  at  Wellborough  for 
three  weeks.  The  story  of  his  return  home  was 
told  by  himself  to  an  admiring — though  not 
envious — circle  in  the  Blue  Lion  taproom. 

"Ah,  they  didn't  treat  ma  so  baad  up  at 
Wellborough.  The  governer  come  to  see  ma 
once — nice  spoke  gen'leman  'a  was.  And  the 
Paason,  too.  The  Paason  give  ma  a  tract,  and 
I  brought  un  hoiime  fur  Ezra  Padge — here 
'tis,  Ezra.  'Tis  about  curin'  'eeself  o'  baad 
language,  and  I  hope  it  'ull  do  'ee  good." 

And  he  tossed  it  over  the  table.  The  cure 
did  not  commence  on  the  spot,  and  the  land- 
lord had  to  stop  the  remarks  volunteered  by 
Ezra  Padge. 

"Ah,  you  read  un,  Ezra,"  went  on  Tom 
Homer,  "  t'ool  stop  'ee  say  in'  such  wicked 
words.  The  warders  warn't  a  baad  lot,  neither 
— taake  'em  all  in  all.  There  was  one  as  I 
took  quite  a  fancy  to.  Met  un  when  I  came 
out — off  duty,  and  stood  'un  a  pint  to  show  I 
didn't  bear  'un  no  ill  will.  And  they  give  ma 
a  ticket  back  to  Derringford. 

"  I  walked  hoiime  from  Derringford  across 
the  fields " 

He  stopped,  took  a  big  pull  at  his  mug,  and 
chuckled  long  and  audibly. 

"  What  be  the  matter,  Tom  ?" 

"  I'll  tell  'ee— 'tis  that  'ere  Jarvis.     As  I 


24  DOWNLAND  ECHOES 

was  a-comin'  along  I  overtook  Bill  Thatcher, 
and  walked  wi'  he.  Lucky  I  did.  Presently 
we  meets  Jarvis  a-goin'  into  Derringford, 
meets  'un  as  we  were  gettin'  over  the  stile 
in  Muster  Bilby's  forty-acre  medder.  And 
Jarvis  began  a-laughin'  at  I,  askin'  how  I 
loiked  bread  and  skilly,  and  a-tellin'  ma  it 
served  ma  right." 

He  chuckled  again  and  took  another  drink. 

"  Well,"  he  went  on,  "  I  just  ups  wi'  ma  fist 
and  caught  un  one  under  the  chin  afore  he 
knowed  what  I  was  a-doin'."  Then  I  gets  un 
in  the  eye  and  knocks  un  into  the  ditch.  He 
came  out  wi'  his  helmet  bashed  in,  his  coat  • 
tore,  and  all  covered  wi'  muck.  Haw,  haw, 
hawl" 

"  T'ent  no  larfiii'  matter  for  you"  said 
Ezra  Padge. 

"  Yes  'tis.  And  I'll  tell  'ee  for  why.  He 
dursn't  summon  ma  for  assault.  I've  got  Bill 
Thatcher  for  a  witness." 

"  What's  that  to  do  wi'  it  ?" 

"Can't  'ee  see,  ye  fool?  Why,  I  hadnt 
done  nothin'  and  he  had  no  business  to  saay 
naught.  He  provoked  ma.  And  he  knows 
I  can  prove  it.  And  a  bobby  what  goes  out 
o'  his  waay  to  provoke  an  innercent  person 
ain't  a-goin'  to  get  promotion.  He's  forced  to 
taiike  what  I  give  un  and  kip  his  mouth  shut." 


RETICENCE 


II 

RETICENCE 

NEARLY  everybody  who  really  belonged  to  the 
village  was  reticent.  It  was  one  of  the 
characteristics  of  their  lives.  For  this  reason 
the  outsider  seldom  understood  the  country- 
man, not  knowing  that  what  he  imagined  was 
sheer  ignorance  or  stupidity  was  often  the 
cloak  for  an  underlying  shrewdness  that  rarely 
became  apparent  on  the  surface. 

This  characteristic  reticence  was  hereditary. 
It  had  come  down  through  the  centuries. 
British  ancestors  had  to  make  use  of  it  in 
Roman  times,  for  it  was  not  wise  to  let  the 
dominant  race  know  all  there  was  to  know 
about  them.  Saxon  forefathers  had  to  practise 
concealment  under  the  conquering  Normans. 
In  feudal  times  the  villeins  were  not  over- 
anxious that  the  lord  of  the  manor  should  be 
aware  of  all  their  doings.  The  landlordism 
that  dates  from  the  seventeenth  century  helped 
to  produce  further  the  wielding  of  the  weapon 
of  reticence.  And  so  it  was  that  the  quality 
of  secretiveness  was  so  strongly  developed 

27 


28  DOWNLAND  ECHOES 

that  it  became  difficult  to  find  out  reasons  for 
actions.  They  didn't,  as  a  rule,  give  any 
reasons.  But  they  had  them.  To  begin  to 
discover  reasons  you  had  to  live  among  them. 
At  first  they  seemed  a  simple  people,  easy  to 
understand,  but  at  the  end  of  five  years  you 
were  a  wise  person  if  you  admitted,  candidly, 
that  you  really  knew  little  about  them.  Then 
you  commenced  to  learn,  and  the  learning  was 
no  easy  task.  Rarely  would  they  admit 
reasons  for  actions  to  anyone  whom  they  had 
not  learned  to  trust.  But  once  they  trusted 
you,  there  was  a  chance  of  grasping  something 
of  their  peculiar  psychology. 

For  example,  there  was  the  case  of  the  Choir 
Strike  in  the  village  of  East  Harford.  Paason 
there  introduced  a  new  hymn-book,  with  the 
full  approval  of  the  adult  members  of  the 
choir.  They,  one  and  all,  said  they  were 
pleased  with  it.  They  knew — as  every  village 
choir  knew — that  they  were  the  very  best 
choir  in  Downland.  They  spoke  of  the  fact 
quite  naturally  —  especially  when  they  met 
choirmen  of  other  parishes.  So  they  knew  it 
was  quite  right  for  them  to  have  fresh  oppor- 
tunities of  showing  their  powers  in  the  way  of 
new  hymns  and  new  tunes.  Had  Paiison 
suggested  that  they  should  attempt  the 
"  Hallelujah  Chorus "  as  an  anthem  for  the 


RETICENCE  29 

harvest  festival  they  would  not  have  turned 
a  hair. 

Therefore  Paiison,  who  understood  them 
just  a  little,  knew  that  there  was  no  false 
modesty  about  it  when  the  men  of  the  choir 
suddenly,  without  warning,  refused  to  sing  any 
of  the  hymns  in  the  new  book.  At  practice 
they  sat  down  when  the  hymns  were  rehearsed, 
glaring  straight  in  front  of  them  and  refusing 
to  open  their  mouths — leaving  the  task  to  the 
boys.  In  service  time  they  stood  quite  dumb 
during  the  singing  of  hymns,  ostentatiously 
bookless.  Paiison  expostulated,  asked  them 
their  reasons,  but  all  he  got  out  of  them  was : 

"  We  ent  goin'  to  sing  ara  hymn  out  o'  that 
new  book." 

At  length,  one  night  at  practice,  the  oldest 
man,  on  being  pressed,  grudgingly  admitted  : 

"  We  thinks  the  book's  silly,  sir  1" 

"  Silly  ?  But  why  ?  What  makes  you  say 
that  ?" 

But  they  only  sat  silent. 

Next  practice  Paason  pressed  the  point.  As 
it  happened  he  had  lived  some  years  among 
them  and  had  somewhat  gained  their  con- 
fidence. Otherwise  he  would  never  have 
arrived  at  the  real  reason. 

The  oldest  choirman  took  up  one  of  the 
offending  hymn-books,  opened  it,  slowly  turned 


30  DOWNLAND  ECHOES 

the  pages  over,  found  what  he  wanted  and 
handed  it  to  Paason,  pointing  out  a  particular 
couplet  with  his  long  forefinger. 

Paason  read  out  loud  the  words  of  that 
ancient  hymn : 

"  Thy  turrets  and  thy  pinnacles 
With  carbuncles  shall  shine." 

"Well?"  he  asked. 

"  There,  sir,"  came  the  reply,  "  we  ent  goin' 
to  sing  such  foolishness  as  that.  Whoever 
heered  tell  o'  decoratin'  towers  wi'  corns  and 
bunions  /" 

Their  reason  was  a  perfectly  legitimate  one. 
They  had  never  heard  of  a  precious  stone 
called  the  carbuncle,  but  they  did  know  what  a 
carbuncle  on  the  back  of  the  neck  was  like. 
They  reasoned  quite  logically.  They  acted 
quite  logically.  To  them  the  book  was  foolish. 
An  outsider  who  knew  nothing  about  the 
rustic  mind,  and  who  could  never  have 
abstracted  their  real  motive,  would  have 
denounced  them  as  being  stupid  and  pig- 
headed. 

There  was  a  village  working  men's  club. 
Paason  thought  he  would  amuse  the  men,  so 
one  evening  he  went  in  and,  uninvited,  read 
them  one  of  the  funniest  stories  of  a  particu- 
larly humorous  author.  It  was  a  screamingly 


RETICENCE  31 

comic  yarn,  but  not  the  vestige  of  a  smile 
appeared  on  the  face  of  a  single  man  there. 
The  ordinary  observer  would  have  said  that 
they  had  no  sense  of  humour,  but  he  would 
have  been  quite  wrong.  The  real  reason 
was  nothing  of  the  kind.  For  a  long  time 
they  refused  to  say  what  it  was.  They  had 
recourse  to  the  inevitable  weapon  of  re- 
ticence. They  told  the  usual  perversion  of 
the  truth.  They  said  they  didn't  see  any- 
thing in  what  they  had  heard.  But  Paason 
knew  better,  and  persevered.  Then  it  came 
out.  One  man  said  reluctantly  : 

"  Well,  sir,  we  doan't  like  being  treated  like 
children.  We  can  all  o'  us  read  for  ourselves 
if  we  want  to." 

He  had  insulted  them.  Without  knowing 
it,  he  had  really  hurt  their  pride,  as  people  are 
constantly  hurting  the  pride  of  the  agricultural 
labourer.  It  rankled  bitterly  ;  struck  at  their 
sturdy  independence.  They  acted  on  pure 
reason.  It  was  a  sense  of  their  own  dignity 
that  made  them  refuse  to  laugh. 

They  so  often  scored  over  this  reticence  of 
theirs.  Just  outside  the  village  was  a  bit  of 
land,  known  from  immemorial  days  as 
"  Church  Acre,"  let  by  the  churchwardens 
from  year  to  year,  and  the  proceeds  paid  in  to 
the  "  church  expenses."  The  letting  of  the 


32  DOWNLAND  ECHOES 

said  piece  of  ground  always  dated  from 
Michaelmas,  according  to  ancient  custom. 

One  Michaelmas,  Farmer  Wood  and  his 
fellow-churchwarden,  Farmer  Gringer,  came 
to  see  Paason.  They  told  him  that  William 
Briggs,  also  a  farmer,  who  for  years  had 
rented  "  Church  Acre,"  refused  to  take  it  on 
again  unless  they  granted  him  a  reduction 
of  rent. 

"  He's  always  paid  fifty  shillings  for  it,"  said 
Farmer  Wood,  "  and  now  he  says  he  won't 
give  more  than  forty-five." 

"  You  see,  Vicar,"  explained  Farmer  Gringer, 
"  'tis  this  way.  We  don't  want  to  lower  the 
value  o'  *  Church  Acre.'  It  has  brought  us  in 
fifty  shillings  a  year  as  long  as  I  can  remember, 
and  'tis  a  pity  to  drop  five  shillings." 

Paason  agreed.  He  knew  how  closely  the 
churchwardens  reckoned — after  the  manner  of 
their  kind.  Five  shillings  was  no  insignificant 
sum.  A7o  sum,  even  fivepence,  was  ever  in- 
significant to  their  minds.  Besides,  this  was 
establishing  a  bad  precedent — the  lowering  of 
the  value  of  Church  property,  a  far  more 
serious  business  from  their  point  of  view  than 
strict  orthodoxy  of  doctrine.  It  was  down- 
right faithfulness  to  the  Church  that  made 
them  come  to  him.  He  knew  this. 

"  Oh,"   he   said,   "  can't  you   persuade   old 


RETICENCE  33 

William  Briggs  to  take  it  on  for  the  same 
rent  ?" 

But  they  said  they  had  tried  hard  to  do  this, 
with  blank  refusal. 

"William's  orkard,"  explained  Farmer 
Gringer. 

"  Well,"  said  Palison,  "  I'll  have  a  talk  with 
him  myself  and  see  what  1  can  do." 

They  assented  to  his  proposition,  but  were 
dubious  of  results. 

So  Paason  went  to  see  William  Briggs,  and 
found  him,  as  usual,  affable  and  charming. 
He  was  smoking,  so  Paason  pulled  out  his  own 
pipe  and  pouch,  hoping  to  arrange  matters 
over  the  peaceful  weed  as  man  to  man. 

Old  William  listened  in  silence  while  Paason 
propounded  the  reason  for  keeping  up  the 
rent  and  exhorted  him  as  a  good  Churchman — 
which  he  was — to  agree  to  the  payment  of  the 
fifty  shillings  in  full.  And  when  he  had 
finished  William  took  his  pipe  from  his  mouth 
and  said,  without  the  slightest  prevarication  or 
the  propounding  of  any  difficulty  whatsoever : 

"All  right,  Vicar.  I  see  your  point  of 
view ;  and  I'll  be  pleased  to  take  on  '  Church 
Acre'  as  usual  for  fifty  shillings.  'T'ent  worth 
more  than  forty-five,  but  what  you  say  is  quite 
right." 

Paason  went  forth  elated.  He  had  done 

s 


34  DOWNLAND  ECHOES 

what  the  churchwardens  could  not  do.  He 
had,  with  the  greatest  ease,  talked  over  the 
old  farmer.  It  was  a  great  feather  in  his 
clerical  hat,  metaphorically  speaking.  He 
rejoiced  exceedingly  in  his  own  diplomacy  and 
persuasive  powers,  and  took  the  earliest 
opportunity  of  informing  the  churchwardens 
of  his  victory. 

But  they,  knowing  their  own  kind  a  great 
deal  better  than  he  did,  instead  of  patting  him 
on  the  back,  only  shook  their  heads.  And 
Farmer  Wood  said : 

"  Ah !  I'm  afraid  William  'ull  best  us  yet. 
T'ent  like  him  not  to." 

At  Easter — six  months  later,  during  which 
period  William  kept  strict  silence  on  the 
matter  of  "  Church  Acre  " — folks  paid  a  sub- 
scription to  church  expenses.  They  did  not 
call  it  a  subscription.  They  called  it  a 
"voluntary  rate."  It  was  a  survival  of  the 
old  "church  rate,"  and  they  had  agreed  to 
pay  it  years  before  on  the  condition  that  there 
should  not  be  collections  at  every  service  in 
the  church. 

Farmer  Gringer  collected  it.  In  due  course 
he  asked  William  Briggs  for  his  customary 
subscription.  William  pulled  out  of  his 
pocket  the  canvas  bag  that  served  him  for 
a  purse  and  produced  five  shillings. 


RETICENCE  35 

"  But,"  said  Gringer,  "  'tis  ten  shillings  you 
always  give,  William." 

William  half-closed  one  of  his  eyes  and 
replied  deliberately : 

*'  Ah  !  But  Palison  wanted  me  to  give  'ee 
fifty  shillings  for  *  Church  Acre.'  I  told  him 
'twas  only  worth  forty-five.  I  can  only  give 
'ee  five  shillings  now  instead  o'  ten.  I  had  to 
make  it  up  to  myself  somehow  !" 

They  were  right :  he  had  bested  them.  And 
Paiison  came  down  from  his  pedestal  to  the 
level  of  the  humility  that  he  felt  he  deserved. 


BLOODS" 


Ill 

" BLOODS " 

THEY  were  never  called  by  that  name,  of 
course,  but  they  were  the  "  bloods "  of  the 
village,  all  the  same.  The  "  lady  from 
Lunnon "  who  wrote  country-life  sketches 
spoke  of  them  as  "  hobbledehoys,"  but  then 
she  never  knew  anything  about  them  at  all. 
Had  she  lived  in  the  village  for  five  years  and 
been  a  discerning  person  she  would  have 
confessed  to  an  utter  ignorance  of  the  life 
around  her,  but  as  she  only  came  down  for 
occasional  week-ends  she  thought  the  "  copy  " 
based  on  her  observations  perfect. 

The  "  bloods  "  were  pure  natives  and  purely 
agricultural,  of  ages  varying  from  seventeen 
to  the  early  twenties.  Weekdays  they  toiled 
on  the  land  in  various  capacities,  Sundays 
they  paraded  in  groups  and  glory  of  ready-made 
best  clothes.  Weekday  evenings  they  also 
paraded  in  groups,  but  not  in  best  clothes. 
Wealthier  "  bloods "  possessed  bicycles  and 
went  further  afield. 

Sunday,  naturally,  was  the  great  day  for 
39 


40  DOWNLAND  ECHOES 

them.  To  be  in  the  height  of  fashion  was  to 
sport  a  large-linked  silver  watch  chain  with 
silver  ornaments  thereto  affixed  and  a  big 
buttonhole.  Sometimes  the  ruling  fashion 
demanded  tivo  buttonholes,  one  on  either  side 
of  the  coat.  Bowler  hats  were  also  accessories 
of  the  leading  "  bloods,"  worn  well  on  the 
back  of  the  head,  showing  carefully  oiled 
hair. 

The  customary  greeting  when  arrayed  in 
Sunday  habiliments  and  enjoying  idle  hours 
was  "  How  be  ?"  That  is  how  they  saluted  each 
other.  The  opposite  sex,  when  passing,  were 
generally  greeted  with  loud  coughs — and 
seemed  to  understand. 

Just  outside  the  church  door  was  a  great 
Sunday  evening  meeting-place.  They  as- 
sembled an  hour  or  so  before  service  and  had 
many  subtle  jokes  among  themselves.  As 
worshippers  began  to  arrive  remarks  were 
passed,  generally  intended  to  be  over- 
heard especially  when  it  was  the  case  with 
maidens. 

"  I  wish  /  had  a  hat  wi'  daisies  in  it !" 

"  /  sh'd  like  a  green  parrasole  to  kip  the 
rain  off!" 

And  Mary  Blake  and  Rose  Padge,  who 
respectively  possessed  the  objects  in  question, 
would  nudge  each  other  violently,  and  giggle, 


"BLOODS"  41 

and  look  over  their  shoulders,  and  then  stick  up 
their  heads  in  assumed  indignation  as  they 
entered  the  church,  making  mental  notes, 
nevertheless,  that  a  daisy-trimmed  hat  and  a 
green  parasol  had  been  excellent  attractions. 

Then  would  appear  Tom  Moorcock,  one  of 
their  fraternity,  who  had  detached  himself 
from  his  own  sex  only  recently  to  walk  out 
with  Kitty  Walters.  Up  the  churchyard  path 
he  came,  awkward  in  gait  and  red  of  face, 
Kitty  walking  demurely  by  his  side.  He 
knew  the  ordeal  before  him,  having  helped 
many  a  time  to  inflict  it  on  others.  A  loud 
"  Haw,  haw,  haw  "  as  they  appeared,  followed 
by  a  general  chorus  of  "  How  be,  Tom  ?"  to 
which  he  returned  a  reluctant  "  How  be  ?" 
accompanied  with  a  ghastly  attempt  at  a  smile 
followed  by  a  side-glance  at  Kitty  to  see  how 
she  received  the  ejaculation,  "  I  sh'd  loike 
a  purty  gal  wi'  a  blue  dress  to  taake  ma  to 
church,"  and  escaping  into  the  sacred  edifice 
with  a  pointed  reference  to  "  puttin'  up  th' 
banns "  ringing  in  his  ear,  while  Kitty 
admonished  him  to  "taake  your  hat  off,  Tom, 
can't  'ee  ?" 

But  he  need  not  have  feared.  Kitty 
Walters  had  no  intention  of  deserting  him, 
having  already  remarked  to  a  bosom  friend,  "  I 
doiin't  mind  un  a-walkin'  out  wi'  me  " — which 


42  DOWNLAND  ECHOES 

was,  in  local  phraseology,  superlative  satisfac- 
tion at  having  him  attached  to  her.  And, 
could  he  have  known  it,  the  remark  on 
"  puttin'  up  the  banns "  was  not  at  all 
distasteful  to  her  mind,  though,  of  course,  she 
knew  that  "walkin'  out"  was  one  of  those 
preliminary  stages  which,  though  lasting  even 
for  a  year  or  two,  might  always  be  terminated 
any  day  by  either  party,  and  did  not  necessarily 
lead  to  proposal  of  marriage. 

The  "  ting-tang "  bell  began  to  ring  five 
minutes  before  the  time  of  service.  Paiison 
came  out  of  his  private  gate  from  his  Vicarage 
garden  and  crossed  over  to  the  church.  A 
silence  fell  upon  the  group.  He  nodded  a 
"  good-evening  "  to  them  and  received  sundry 
hat  touches  in  return.  They  were  always 
respectful,  if  taciturn,  in  his  presence.  He, 
having  mastered  to  a  certain  extent  the 
ignorance  of  rural  psychology  which  he 
possessed  when  he  first  came  into  the  village, 
knew  better  than  to  say  to  them,  "  Coming  to 
church,  lads  ?"  and  passed  on. 

To  a  stranger  it  would  have  appeared  that 
they  did  not  intend  to  go  to  church.  But 
within  a  minute  of  the  hour  they  went  in— 
altogether,  some  of  them  giggling. 

Not  silently.  Their  nailed  boots  clattered 
loudly  on  the  tiles  as  they  made  their  way 


"BLOODS"  43 

to  the  back  of  the  building,  grinning  at  friends 
in  pews,  and  huddled  themselves  in  a  body 
into  seats  with  much  scraping  of  feet  and 
whispering. 

But  it  was  not  scorn  of  the  sacred  building 
that  made  them  behave  like  this.  They  would 
not  own  it,  but,  in  reality,  the  "  bloods  "  were 
shy  ! 

Piiason  heard  them  tumbling  into  church, 
and  smiled  at  a  recollection.  Years  before, 
when  he  was  new  to  the  parish  and  country 
life,  the  "  bloods  "  had  suddenly,  and  without 
apparent  reason,  deserted  the  church  on 
Sunday  evenings.  The  back  of  the  building 
was  empty.  Moreover,  he  soon  learned  that 
they  had  betaken  themselves  in  a  body  to  the 
chapel.  And  there  they  went  for  several  weeks 
in  succession. 

Paiison  was  puzzled.  While  conscious  in  his 
own  mind  that  everyone  has  a  right  to  attend 
the  place  of  worship  of  his  choice,  he  wanted 
to  know  why  ?  It  occurred  to  him  to  state  the 
case  to  a  brother  cleric  who  had  had  many 
years'  experience  of  the  peculiar  ways  of  village 
life.  To  him  he  went. 

"  Have  you  said  anything  to  them  about  it?" 
asked  the  wise  old  clergyman. 

"  No — not  a  word." 

"  Have  you  spoken  to  anyone  else  in  your 


44  DOWNLAND  ECHOES 

parish  about  it,  or  shown  in  any  way  that 
you're  upset  ?" 

"No." 

The  other  man  rubbed  his  hands  and  smiled. 

"  Good !"  he  ejaculated,  "  you're  all  right, 
then.  They're  only  trying  it  on  with  you — 
that's  all.  If  they  knew  they'd  annoyed  you 
they'd  boast  of  having  'got  the  better  o'  Paiison,' 
and  probably  you'd  never  have  much  influence 
with  them.  But  you  just  keep  quiet  and  you'll 
find  they'll  all  come  back  in  a  few  weeks." 

And  they  did. 

Such  was  the  way  of  the  "  bloods."  But  it 
would  be  difficult  to  trace  the  psychology  that 
led  to  it.  Once  there  was  a  sudden  "strike." 
Michaelmas  came  round  and,  without  excep- 
tion, all  the  "  bloods  "  in  the  village  refused  to 
be  "  hired  on  "  for  the  year  by  the  farmers. 
They  gave  no  reason,  they  asked  for  no  ad- 
vance of  wages,  they  made  no  complaints,  they 
took  no  notice  of  remonstrances.  They  simply 
struck  work  and  paraded  the  village  in  idle 
groups  for  weeks.  No  one  ever  knew  why. 
It  is  a  question  whether  they  knew  the  reason 
themselves. 

On  week-day  evenings  the  "  bloods  " 
assembled  after  work.  There  were  favourite 
corners.  Sometimes  o'  dark  nights  they  con- 
gregated like  moths  outside  the  village  shop, 


"BLOODS"  45 

making  remarks  at  the  going-in  and  coming- 
out  of  customers,  flattening  their  noses  against 
the  window  to  ascertain  what  was  being  pur- 
chased. 

At  other  times,  also  on  dark  nights,  there 
was  never  a  trace  of  them.  But  they  were 
there — rubbing  shoulders  against  a  wall  round 
the  corner,  hidden  behind  trees.  An  occasional 
guffaw  betrayed  them — a  sudden  stampede  of 
heavy  feet  going  "  up  street "  told  of  their 
whereabouts. 

And,  in  the  silence,  they  observed  all  things. 
No  one  could  venture  abroad  unnoticed. 
Movements  were  carefully  noted  and  discussed 
in  undertones.  There  was  always  a  sense  of 
secrecy  about  the  "bloods." 

Occasionally  there  was  a  bit  of  harmless 
horse-play.  A  gate  would  be  removed  from 
its  hinges  and  flung  in  the  ditch  ;  a  newly 
painted  fence  would  be  daubed  over  with  tar ; 
flowers  would  mysteriously  disappear  from 
gardens.  These  were  deeds  of  daring — rarely 
found  out.  There  was  a  certain  honour  among 
them,  and  the  blank  ignorance  of  "  I  dunno  " 
was  generally  forthcoming  in  reply  to  indi- 
vidual inquiries. 

The  "  bloods  "  rarely  "  went  to  pub."  Out- 
door assemblies  suited  them  best.  And  they 
hung  together — coming  together  and  going  to- 


46  DOWNLAND  ECHOES 

gether.  In  the  eternal  round  of  village  life  no 
novelty,  sacred  or  secular,  lasted  long.  A 
miniature  rifle  club  drew  them,  at  first,  in 
all  their  numbers.  The  second  year  the 
"bloods"  fought  shy  of  it  and  it  had  to  be 
closed  down.  Paason's  Bible-class  shared  the 
same  fate. 

The  "bloods"  played  no  organised  games. 
True,  there  was  a  cricket  club,  but  the  Captain 
had  a  rare  job  to  get  a  team  together  in  the  few 
desultory  matches  of  the  season,  and  the 
"bloods"  rarely  helped  him.  In  the  winter 
they  might  occasionally  kick  a  football  about 
the  play- close — all  against  all — but  they  never 
attempted  to  form  themselves  into  a  club,  and 
resented  the  attempts  of  Paason  and  others  who 
tried  to  do  so. 

Final  detachment  from  the  "  bloods  "  came 
about  either  by  advancing  into  the  twenties  or 
the  putting  up  of  the  banns.  Fred  Moorcock 
and  Kitty  Walters  stepped  awkwardly  into 
Paason's  study — the  parish  clerk  was  away 
from  home  that  Saturday  night,  or  they  never 
would  have  ventured  to  call  at  the  Vicarage. 
Kitty  Walters  led  the  way  and  the  conver- 
sation. 

"Well,  Fred?"  asked  Paason,  a  slightly 
puzzled  look  on  his  face. 

To  which  Kitty  replied, 


"BLOODS"  47 

"  Please,  sir,  we  wants  our  banns  put  up  to- 
morrow marnin'." 

Paason  offered  his  congratulations,  dipped 
his  pen  in  the  ink  to  take  down  their  full 
Christian  names,  hesitated,  looked  puzzled 
again,  and  then  said, 

"  Are  you  going  to  marry  her,  Fred  ?" 

Fred  hugged  his  hat  more  closely  to  his 
knees,  beamed  amiably,  and  replied, 

"  Ess,  sir,  I  be." 

"  But,"  said  Paason,  turning  to  Kitty,  "  I 
thought  you've  been  'walking  out'  with 
Tom  r 

Kitty  blushed  slightly. 

"  So  1  were,  sir,"  she  admitted. 

"  I — er — I  don't  quite  understand,"  said 
Paason.  "  What  will  your  brother  say,  Fred  ?" 

To  which  Fred  expounded  his  chivalry.  It 
was  a  long  speech,  but  he  got  through  it. 

"  Tis  like  this,  sir.  Tom's  bin  a-walkin'  out 
wi'  Kitty  this  two  year,  and  now  he's  throwed 
her  over  for  Jane  Bidmead.  I  told  un  he 
were  a  fool,  but  he  'ood  have  his  own  waay. 
And  I  didn't  see  as  Kitty  should  be  disap- 
pointed, so  I  asks  her  if  she'd  have  I  instead — 
and  she  says  she  'ool." 

"  Dear  me,"  exclaimed  Paason ;  "  that's 
rather  a  strange  proceeding.  What  have  you 
to  say  to  it,  Kitty  ?" 


48  DOWNLAND  ECHOES 

Kitty  glanced  at  her  Fred. 
"  I  doiin't  mind  tin,"  she  said  calmly. 
Whereupon  the  "  bloods  "  knew  Fred  Moor- 
cock as  one  of  their  fraternity  no  longer. 


THE  CONCERT 


IV 
THE  CONCERT 

THE  schoolroom  was  the  only  place  available 
for  public  meetings  or  entertainments.  Desks 
had  to  be  dragged  about,  tops  turned  down 
and  formed  into  rows  of  seats.  Jim  Stacey, 
the  village  carpenter,  came  in  to  erect  the 
"stage,"  which  consisted  of  four  large  deal 
slabs  set  up  on  trestles.  For  which  duty  Jim 
charged  the  modest  sum  of  two  shillings — 
including  taking  it  down.  Paraffin  lamps  had 
to  be  lighted  and  properly  arranged.  Jim 
Stacey  was  also  the  recognised  money-taker 
at  the  door,  which  office  he  performed  gratui- 
tously. 

Entertainments  usually  had  an  object  con- 
nected with  lucre.  Funds  were  wanted  for 
church  purposes :  repairs  to  the  organ ;  new 
hymn-books  for  the  choir  ;  new  lamps  in  place 
of  old  ones  that  dripped  oil  and  anointed  the 
heads  of  the  faithful. 

Or  for  general  village  purposes  :  a  bathchair 
for  the  use  of  the  sick  and  infirm  ;  another  seat 

51 


52  DOWNLAND  ECHOES 

in  the  play-close ;  instruments  for  the  band. 
The  receipts  were  generally  modest.  Three 
pounds  constituted  a  huge  haul,  and  gave 
food  for  a  week's  gossip. 

"  Entertainments "  were  of  various  kinds. 
Magic-lanterns,  concerts,  attempts  at  theat- 
ricals, and  the  like.  Even  unto  whist-drives 
and  dances. 

Magic  -  lanterns,  however,  went  out  of 
fashion.  A  travelling  cinema  put  up  a  tent 
for,  a  week  in  the  village,  and  the  "  bloods  " 
and  others  paid  twopence  to  see  "  living 
pictures."  And  that  killed  the  ordinary  lantern 
show. 

Audiences  varied — according  to  the  state  of 
the  moon  or  the  personality  of  the  performers. 
Calendars  were  generally  consulted  with  true 
Shakespearian  instinct  in  order  to  fix  a  concert 
for  a  night  when  the  moon  was  full.  And  as 
to  performers,  well,  Little  Marpleton  talent 
came  first  and  foremost,  and  the  old  songs 
were  easy  favourites. 

Paiison  had  his  first  lesson  on  public  taste 
shortly  after  taking  up  his  abode  in  the  village. 
He  had  a  friend  who  was  celebrated  in  elocu- 
tionary skill,  who  gave  "  Evenings  with  Shake- 
speare," or  Dickens,  or  other  great  authors, 
which  drew  crowded  audiences  in  towns ;  and 
his  friend,  who  particularly  fancied  himself  on 


THE  CONCERT  53 

his  achievements,  came  to  give  his  celebrated 
"  Evening  with  Charles  Dickens." 

Paiison  boomed  him  previously,  published  a 
preliminary  notice  in  the  Parish  Magazine, 
talked  about  him,  and  otherwise  prepared  the 
way.  But,  alas !  not  a  score  of  people  came 
to  hear  him,  and  after  paying  his  railway 
expenses  the  profit  was  minus  several  shillings. 

Paason  asked  why.  And  they  told  him 
plainly. 

"  Well,  sir,  't'oodn't  be  likely  we  should  ha' 
come  to  hear  un.  First  place,  'a  was  a 
straanger,  and  we  doiin't  know  nought  about 
un.  Second  place,  there  en't  ara  one  in  the 
village  who  ever  heard  about  this  'ere  Chawles 
Dickens  ;  we  dunno  who  'a  be  /" 

For  the  next  "  entertainment "  he  fell  back 
upon  local  talent.  The  room  was  packed, 
and  the  general  opinion  was :  "  I  enjoyed 
maself  a  smaiirt  lot  up  at  t'  school  larst  night. 
'Twas  worth  hearin'." 

The  farmers  and  their  belongings  occupied 
the  front  seats.  The  "  bloods  "  congregated 
at  the  back,  occupying  window-seats,  or  stand- 
ing on  the  broken  desk  that  was  specially 
provided  for  them.  They  were  the  "gods," 
and  they  knew  it. 

"  Miss  Rose  Taplin "  (on  the  programme) 
greeted  as  "  Rosy  "  when  she  appeared  on  the 


54  DOWNLAND  ECHOES 

platform  by  one  of  the  oldest  of  the  "  bloods," 
led  off  with  a  "  pianoforte  solo,"  played  with 
a  strict  regard  to  time  (and  they  helped  her 
with  boot  -  tapping),  and  an  equally  strict 
disregard  of  all  expression.  She  stayed  to 
accompany  her  sister,  "  Miss  Gladys  Taplin," 
who,  being  arrayed  in  evening  dress  with  a 
bouquet,  was  greeted  with  a  subdued  "  Oh ! 
look  at  her !"  from  the  back  of  the  room.  She 
was  exceedingly  sentimental  in  her  choice  of 
a  song — abjectly,  miserably  sentimental — but 
enjoyed  herself  immensely. 

The  family  of  Taplin  contributed  greatly  to 
the  programme,  and  Henry,  brother  of  the 
above  young  ladies,  brought  down  the  house. 
They  knew  he  was  up  to  something  directly 
he  faced  them,  for  he  winked  deliberately  and 
pointed  straight  at  his  father,  who  was  seated 
near  the  front.  Now,  Job  Taplin  bore  a  great 
local  reputation.  Fruit- dealer  by  profession, 
he  was  known  as  the  laziest  man  in  the  village, 
and  was  always  to  be  found  sauntering  about 
with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  or  lounging 
in  the  taproom  of  the  Blue  Lion  mornings 
and  afternoons.  The  rest  of  the  family  were 
the  workers.  He  was  the  drone.  And  his 
son  meant  to  get  his  own  back  that  night. 
He  had  lighted  upon  a  comic  song,  the  refrain 
of  which  was : 


THE  CONCERT  55 

"  We  all  go  to  work  but  Fa-a-a-ther, 
We  all  go  to  work  but  Fa-a-a-ther. 
Mother  turns  a  mangle,  sister  washes  clothes, 
Brother  Tom's  a  gardener  ;  he  digs  and  rakes  and  hoes. 
I  do  all  the  odd  jobs,  and  things  that  Father  don't. 
We  all  work  but  Father — he  drinks  his 
Beer  and  won't  !" 

It  wasn't  the  song  he  had  told  Paiison  he 
was  going  to  sing ;  but  then,  he  had  his 
reasons.  There  was  a  terrific  encore,  and  the 
"bloods"  took  up  the  chorus  vociferously. 
Even  Job  himself,  who  was  ever  a  meek  man 
arid  bore  no  malice,  shook  his  shoulders  with 
laughter,  turned  to  his  neighbour,  and  said,  in 
a  husky  voice,  as  if  explaining  a  problem : 
"  Th'  young  beggar  means  me,  darn  un !" 
Weeks  afterwards,  whenever  you  heard, 
from  the  top  of  the  village,  the  words  of  that 
very  palpable  chorus, 

"  We  all  go  to  work  but  Fa-a-a  ther  !" 

you  were  sure  that  Job  Taplin  was  somewhere 
in  evidence,  sauntering  with  hands  in  pocket. 

When  Ezra  Padge  mounted  the  platform 
and  stood,  nervously,  facing  the  audience,  one 
great  cry  greeted  him  instantly.  There  were 
shouts  of  "  Clementina  !"  "  Clementina  !"  It 
was  the  only  song  he  had  ever  been  known  to 
sing,  either  in  public  or  privately.  He  had 
sung  it,  year  in  and  year  out,  at  every  concert  in 


56  DOWNLAND  ECHOES 

which  he  had  ever  taken  part.  1  f  he  had  essayed 
any  other  song  the  audience  would  have  been 
bitterly  disappointed,  for  he  was  associated  with 
nothing  else  in  their  minds.  Stale?  Not  a 
bit  of  it.  Wasn't  he  one  of  themselves,  doing 
what  he  had  always  done,  and  was  ever  ex- 
pected to  do  ?  They  came  to  hear  him  sing 
"  Clementina." 

*'  Dunno  as  I  ever  heered  Ezra  in  better 
form,"  said  one  to  his  neighbour.  "  He  do  know 
how  to  sing  that  song,  ah,  and  I  ought  to  know 
— scores  o'  times  I've  listened  to  un.  An- 
core  !  An-core !" 

Followed  Fred  Moorcock,  the  recognised 
comedian  of  the  community.  And  Fred  pos- 
sessed accessories,  none  of  the  least  of  them 
being  a  yellow  wig,  a  false  nose,  and  a  green 
umbrella.  Fred  always  "dressed  up," and  that, 
in  itself,  was  sure  to  bring  the  house  down. 
Rapturous  whistling  greeted  him  from  the 
"  bloods  "  as  he  bounded  on  to  the  stage,  dressed 
in  a  pair  of  white  trousers,  an  old  red  hunts- 
man's coat,  and  a  wide-awake  hat — nose  and 
wig  properly  adjusted,  and  umbrella  over  his 
shoulder.  It  was  a  slightly  incongruous  cos- 
tume for  "The  Farmer's  Boy," but  that  didn't 
matter,  especially  as  there  was  a  good  old 
rollicking  chorus  that  everyone  knew — and  sung 
accordingly : 


THE  CONCERT  57 

"  To  he  a  varmer's  boy-oy-oy  ! 
To  be  a  varmer's  boy  !" 

Of  course,  the  programme  was  not  complete 
without  a  recitation  from  Miss  Bradley,  and  a 
song  from  William  Budd.  Miss  Bradley  was 
a  refined  young  lady — always  refined,  especially 
when  serving  behind  the  counter  of  one  of  the 
little  village  shops.  She  added  taste  and 
literature  to  the  programme  by  reciting,  with 
four  distinct  gestures  at  intervals,  Browning's 
"  Herve  Kiel."  Not  that  she  read  Browning. 
It  \vas  in  one  of  her  shilling  books  of  recita- 
tions under  the  heading  of  "  Serious."  She 
always  recited  serious  pieces.  The  audience 
knew  it,  and  subsided  into  a  melancholy  silence 
accordingly.  They  applauded  her  when  she 
had  finished,  admiring  her  powers  of  memory 
more  than  the  plot  of  the  piece — which  was 
puzzling  to  an  inland  audience.  She  bowed 
gracefully  and  gave  place  to  William  Budd. 

There  stood  William  Budd,  in  best  suit  and 
big  buttonhole,  smiling  the  most  genial  of 
smiles  all  over  his  broad,  good-humoured  Saxon 
face.  Just  the  very  personification  of  a  jolly 
rustic  about  to  sing  a  jolly  song  with  a  jolly 
good  chorus.  You  anticipated  "  Come,  land- 
lord, fill  the  flowing  bowl,"  all  the  more  so  as 
you  knew  William  Budd  was  just  the  man  to 
appreciate  a  flowing  bowl. 


58  DOWNLAND  ECHOES 

But — with  the  first  note  of  the  prelude  to 
the  accompaniment,  William's  smile  began 
slowly  to  die  away.  He  fixed  his  gaze  rigidly 
on  one  particular  point  in  the  roof,  from  which 
he  never  removed  it  once,  and  commenced  to 
sing,  slowly  and  with  appalling  sadness  : 

"  The  night  our  little  Jessie  died 
We  watched  around  her  bed. 
She  closed  her  eyes  and  gently  sighed, 
And  her  pure  spirit  fled  !" 

At  the  proper  juncture  he  called  out  loudly, 
"  Chorus,  please !"  and,  with  his  forefinger 
raised,  beat  time  in  dirge-like  slowness,  while 
all  sang  with  great  relish  and  sentiment : 

"  On  Jessie's  grave  the  green  grass  grows, 

Beneath  that  grass  she's  sleeping. 
Well  leave  her  there  in  calm  repose, 
Her  mem'ry  ever  keeping  !" 

It  was  solemn  to  the  extreme.  At  its  close 
William's  face  relaxed  into  a  broad  and  happy 
smile  once  more ;  he  bowed  awkwardly,  an- 
nouncing, according  to  the  custom,  the  title  of 
the  song  he  had  just  given  them,  "Little 
Jessie's  Grave." 

The  applause  was  subdued.  Gladys  Taplin 
was  seen  to  dab  her  eyes  with  her  handkerchief, 
and  Peter  Hedger,  the  most  accomplished  oath 
collector  and  disburser  in  the  village,  said  to 
his  neighbour, 


THE  CONCERT  59 

"  That's  the  sort  o'  song  /  likes.  Sims  to  do 
'ee  good,  somehow." 

William  Budd  made  his  way  to  the  door  and 
said  to  Jim  Stacey : 

"  I  shall  have  time  for  a  pint  up  at  the  Blue 
Lion  afore  the  next  un  I  reckon,  Jim." 

"  What's  the  next  un,  William  ?  Goin'  to 
gi'  us,  '  Mother's  with  the  angels  now '?" 

"  Ah— thought  about  it." 

"  Couldn't  do  better,  William.  They  all 
likes  that." 

Later  on  in  the  season  a  concert  was  given 
by  some  of  Farmer  Beechy's  friends — who  came 
out  from  Derringford.  The  Derringford 
Gazette  had  had  a  column  about  their  last 
performance  there,  which  was  crowded. 

But  there  was  only  a  moderate-sized  audience 
in  the  school.  And,  in  the  interval,  the 
absent  "  bloods  "  could  be  heard  somewhere  in 
the  village  singing  lustily  : 

"  We  all  go  to  work  but  Fa-a-ther!" 

And  those  who  did  go  gave  as  the  verdict, 
"Ah!  'Twas  pretty  middlin'.  But  they 
weren't  a  patch  on  William  Budd — or  Ezra's 
'  Clementina,'  neither !" 


MATTERS  OF  MONEY 


Miss  CAREY,  the  "lady  from  Lunnon"  who 
rented  a  cottage  for  week-ends  and  wrote 
articles  on  country  life,  called  to  consult 
Paason.  On  matters  temporal,  not  spiritual. 
She  wanted  his  advice,  having  been,  so  she 
told  him,  treated  with  brazen  dishonesty  by 
one  of  his  parishioners,  and  by  her  tone  of 
voice  rather  implying  that  he  was  personally 
responsible  for  the  morality  of  individual 
villagers. 

In  the  orchard  at  the  back  of  her  cottage 
were  sundry  fruit  -  trees,  bearing  a  super- 
abundance as  far  as  she  was  concerned. 
Whereupon  she  had  acted  upon  the  advice  of 
William  Budd,  who  had,  on  her  authority, 
mentioned  the  matter  to  Job  Taplin  in  the 
taproom  of  the  Blue  Lion.  Job,  with  hands 
firmly  buried  in  trouser-pockets,  had  caUed  on 
Miss  Carey,  leisurely  inspected  the  plum-trees 
in  question,  and  finally  made  her  a  bid : 

"  I'll  give  'ee  one  pun  ten  shillin's  for  'em, 
miss." 

63 


64  DOWNLAND  ECHOES 

Miss  Carey,  who,  in  spite  of  her  assumed 
knowledge  of  matters  agricultural,  had  no  idea 
of  the  value  of  the  fruit,  had  accepted  the 
offer,  being  assured  by  Job  that  they  "  'oodn't 
fetch  a  penny  more."  Whether  that  was 
strictly  true  was  not  the  question. 

"  Very  well,  miss,  Fred  shall  come  round 
and  begin  a-gatherin'  on  'em  this  afternoon. 
1  ain't  got  the  money  about  me  now,  but 
I'll  bring  it  along.  I  allus  pays  cash 
down." 

He  had  departed,  still  with  hands  in 
pockets,  given  Fred  his  orders,  and  returned 
to  the  Blue  Lion  to  have  a  second  morning 
glass  on  the  strength  of  his  unwonted  exer- 
tions. Fred  had  taken  round  an  array  of 
"  half-sieve "  baskets  and  duly  stripped  the 
trees. 

Then  came  the  settlement,  and  therein  lay 
Miss  Carey's  indignant  cause  of  complaint. 
Job  Taplin  had  called,  for  once  taken  his  hands 
out  of  his  pockets,  and  counted  out  exactly 
twenty-seven  shillings — nor  would  he  give  her 
a  penny  more — protesting  that  such  was  the 
bargain  agreed  upon. 

"  It  isn't  the  value  of  the  three  shillings," 
explained  Miss  Carey,  "  but  the  fact  that  I 
hate  having  advantage  taken  of  me — and  the 
barefaced  dishonesty  of  the  man.  He  took 


MATTERS  OF  MONF.Y  65 

care  to  take  away  all  the  plums  first,  and  then 
deliberately  and  openly  went  back  on  his  word 
and  cheated  me.  I  hope  you  preach  on  the 
eighth  commandment  sometimes  to  these 
people !" 

Paason,  for  the  life  of  him,  could  not  help 
retorting : 

"  If  you  came  to  church,  Miss  Carey,  you'd 
know  what  I  preached  about !  But  with 
regard  to  Job  Taplin.  Did  he  offer  to  pay 
you  cash  down  ?" 

"  Yes,"  replied  Miss  Carey,  "  he  did.  That's 
just  the  point  of  it.  He  distinctly  offered  me 
thirty  shillings  cash  down." 

"  That's  it,  then,"  said  Paason,  "  you  see,  it's 
the  custom  in  all  our  '  cash  down '  transactions 
for  the  seller  to  pay  back  a  certain  percentage 
to  the  buyer.  In  fruit-dealing  two  shillings  in 
every  pound  is  the  amount.  It's  the  under- 
stood thing." 

Miss  Carey  frowned  and  tapped  her  parasol 
impatiently  on  the  study  floor. 

"  But  how  was  I  to  know  that  ?  He  never 
told  me.  He  simply  led  me  to  understand 
that  I  was  going  to  receive  thirty  shillings." 

"  No,"  replied  Paason,  with  a  smile,  "  that 
isn't  his  view  of  it.  He  assumed  that  you 
knew  exactly  what  he  meant." 

But  how  could  I  ?" 

5 


66  DOWNLAND  ECHOES 

Paason  smiled. 

"  They  don't  tell  you  these  things,"  he  tried 
to  explain  ;  "  you  only  find  them  out  by  living 
among  the  people.  You  see,  in  their  eyes, 
you're  dreadfully  ignorant  if  you  don't  know 
all  their  ways  by  instinct.  Job  hadn't  the 
slightest  intention  of  cheating  you.  And  I 
expect  his  view  of  the  transaction  is  that 
you  tried  to  get  the  better  of  him,  Miss 
Carey  1" 

Miss  Carey  rose  to  go,  but  the  explanation 
only  half-satisfied  her.  Subsequently  there 
was  an  article  in  one  of  the  weeklies  on  the 
dishonesty  of  the  rustic  mind  and  the  failure 
of  the  Church  in  influencing  village  morality. 
A  political  nonconformist  publication  quoted 
it  triumphantly. 

As  a  matter  of  fact  all  "  cash  down  "  trans- 
actions were  sacred.  In  sales  of  cattle,  pigs, 
or  sheep,  for  example,  it  was  the  same.  Cash 
was  paid  down  on  the  nail,  less  commission  ; 
drovers  getting  a  shilling  or  so  out  of  the 
bargain,  and  no  receipts  were  ever  given  or 
even  asked  for.  In  a  neighbouring  village, 
remote  in  the  Downs,  stagnant  as  to  life  on 
the  great  majority  of  days,  four  or  five  times 
a  year  there  were  great  sheep  sales.  Droves 
came  from  every  direction — from  the  far 
west,  from  the  south,  from  all  quarters. 


MATTERS  OF  MONEY  67 

Auctioneers  hied  them  thither,  farmers  and 
dealers  with  big  loose  coats,  pockets  containing 
fat  wallets,  drove  or  rode  towards  the  village, 
or  alighted  at  the  tiny  station  two  and  a  half 
miles  distant.  Sleepy  inns  woke  to  life,  pro- 
viding heavy  meals  of  beef  and  mutton  and 
bread  and  cheese,  washed  down  by  much 
liquor.  Shepherds  and  drovers  shouted,  sheep- 
dogs barked,  great  pens  were  filled  with 
prospective  mutton,  rams  were  congregated  to 
be  sold  singly  or  in  small  lots  for  breeding 
purposes. 

Thousands  of  pounds  changed  hands.  Greasy 
cheque-books  were  unfolded  in  bar -parlours 
and  filled  hi  by  men  with  greasy  garments  and 
unwashed  hands  with  sums  of  three  or  even 
four  figures.  The  fat  wallets  were  unbuckled 
and  rolls  of  crumpled  notes  produced  ;  gold  and 
silver  were  counted  in  handfuls  on  to  pot- 
marked  deal  tables  in  taprooms. 

But  never  was  a  receipt  for  any  payment, 
however  large,  given  or  expected.  These 
were  "  cash  down "  transactions — settled  in 
immemorial  custom.  Primitive,  perhaps,  but 
binding,  in  the  strict  code  of  honour  which  so 
often  attaches  itself  to  primitive  people  when 
dealing  with  each  other. 

Business  transactions  were  based  on  shrewd- 
ness, but  were  not  scientific.  Shopkeepers, 


68  DOWNLAND  ECHOES 

of  course,  kept  books ;  fruit-dealers  manipulated 
odd  scraps  of  pencilled  jottings  when  making 
out  a  bill ;  the  landlord  of  the  Blue  Lion 
delineated — with  bits  of  chalk — hieroglyphics 
only  known  to  himself.  But  with  rare  excep- 
tions farmers  kept  no  accounts  of  any  kind 
— their  usual  method  of  checking  receipts  and 
expenditure  being  simply  their  bank  book. 
If  asked  how  they  could  tell  which  depart- 
ment of  farming  meant  loss  and  which  meant 
gain,  they  just  replied  that  they  couldn't  tell 
and  left  it  at  that.  The  pass-book  from  the 
bank  showed  a  tendency  towards  an  over- 
drawn account — and  rents  due,  too.  The 
problem  was  soon  solved.  "  Sheenin' "  was 
soon  in  evidence,  a  rick  or  two  thrashed  out, 
and  the  produce  sold  o'  market  day.  Or, 
if  the  bank  book  showed  a  "  smaartish 
balance  in  hand,  't'oodn't  be  amiss  to  buy  a 
few  sheep  and  let  'em  feed  off  of  forty  acre 
field." 

Smaller  merchants  referred  to  teapot 
or  stocking  to  see  how  they  stood.  With 
them  there  was  often  a  prejudice  about  letting 
money  go  out  of  sight — over  a  bank  counter. 
Stephen  Finch,  watercress  grower  and  fruit- 
dealer,  was  persuaded  to  depart  from  the 
ways  of  himself  and  his  ancestors,  and  to  open 
an  account  at  the  local  bank  at  Derringford. 


MATTERS  OF  MONEY  69 

He  did  so,  returning  home  with  a  thirty- 
leaved  cheque  book.  There  were  sundry 
payments  to  be  made :  rent,  repairs  to  his  cart, 
the  price  of  a  couple  of  orchards  of  standing 
fruit,  and  so  on.  Laboriously  he  wrote  out 
cheques — a  little  bit  conscious  that  it  was  a 
method  of  disbursement  to  be  proud  of.  He 
kept  no  accounts  and  had  no  time  to  go  seven 
miles  for  his  pass-book — if  he  knew  he  pos- 
sessed one. 

Then  came  a  letter,  one  day,  from  the 
manager  of  the  bank,  pointing  out  that  he 
had  overdrawn  his  account  and  that  they 
couldn't  honour  his  cheques  until  the  necessary 
deficiency  was  made  up.  And  Stephen  Finch 
went  into  the  village  in  great  wrath,  denounc- 
ing that  bank  right  and  left.  He  entered  the 
Blue  Lion,  where  several  of  the  "  reglars " 
were  congregated,  and  held  forth  indig- 
nantly. 

"  That  bank  en't  no  good  of  at  all,"  he  ex- 
claimed. "  They're  a  lot  o'  thievin',  lyin' 
scoundrels,  and  I  'oodn't  advise  ara  one  of  'ee  to 
have  nought  to  do  wi'  'em.  I  be  goin'  to  ask  'em 
for  my  money  back.  Here  they  goes  and  ses 
they  wun't  pay  no  moiire  o'  my  cheques ! 
Why,  they  gi'  ma  thutty  cheques,  an'  I  got 
eleven  of  'em  left  still !  Lookee  !" 

And  he  put  down  his  cheque  book  on  the 


70  DOWNLAND  ECHOES 

table  for  examination.  Several  of  them  shook 
their  heads  dubiously  and  said  "  Ah  !"  sorrow- 
fully. William  Budd  expressed  a  strong 
opinion. 

"1  never  did  think  much  o'  they  banks, 
Steve.  They  be  allus  a  bustin'  or  summat. 
Once  them  inside  'em  lays  hold  o'  other 
people's  money,  stands  to  reason  they're 
tempted  to  keep  it — and  often  do"  he  added 
emphatically. 

The  landlord  endeavoured  to  explain  matters, 
but  Stephen  Finch  continued  to  appeal  to  the 
evidence  of  his  eleven  unused  cheques  and 
refused  to  be  persuaded. 

It  was  pure  thrift  that  prevented  old 
Matthew  Keen  from  opening  a  bank  account. 
Matthew  was  a  small  holder,  a  worried-looking, 
anxious,  hard-working  man,  just  able  to  make 
both  ends  meet  by  working  harder  than  any 
hired  labourer.  Sheer  economy  and  stern 
self-denial  had  enabled  him  to  save  his  little 
bit  of  capital,  that  capital  which  is  so  essential 
for  anyone  who  essays  to  make  a  living  out  of  a 
tiny  farm,  which  is  so  little  taken  account 
of  by  town-bred  speakers  at  election  times 
who  know  nothing  about  crop  failures,  the 
selling  price  of  mangel- wurzels,  or  the  outlay 
required  for  seeds  and  renewal  of  implements. 

So  Matthew  Keen   had  saved   and   saved, 


MATTERS  OF  MONEY  71 

knowing  the  value  of  every  individual  penny. 
And  it  was  just  because  he  knew  the  value  of  a 
single  penny  that  he  refused  to  open  a  banking 
account. 

"'T'ood  cost  ma  a  penny  every  time  I 
wrote  out  a  cheque.  And  I  can't  affoord  to  be 
a-throwin'  awaiiy  o'  pennies.  That  be  a 
casalty  job,  I  reckon." 

But,  one  day,  an  extraordinary  thing 
happened.  Matthew  Keen  and  his  wife  both 
being  out  and  their  cottage  locked,  someone 
burglariously  entered.  It  was  almost  unheard 
of.  Not  that  the  village  was  free  from 
thieving.  For  its  shame,  it  was  not !  Whole 
trees  of  ripe  plums  or  pears  would  be  stripped 
in  a  single  night,  choice  flowers  would  dis- 
appear out  of  gardens,  the  whole  of  the  little 
library,  presented  by  a  friend  of  Paason's  to 
the  working  men's  club,  was  gradually 
removed — volume  by  volume.  But  these  pur- 
loinings  happened  in  public  places,  whereas  in 
Matthew's  case  a  dwelling-house  had  been 
forced  open. 

He  discovered  it  at  once  on  his  return. 
The  lock  was  broken  and  several  things  were 
missing.  He  rushed  up  the  narrow  stairs  and 
into  the  bedroom.  There  were  traces  of  the 
thief  there — drawers  lying  open.  He  kneeled 
down  in  front  of  the  fireplace,  put  his  trembling 


72  DOWNLAND  ECHOES 

hand  up  the  chimney,  and  brought  forth  a 
little  old  bag. 

"  Thank  God  !"  he  ejaculated  ;  "  they  en't 
took  that/" 

Carefully,  a  little  apprehensively,  he  untied 
the  string  of  the  bag  and  counted  the  contents. 

"  Eighty-one  pund.     'Tis  all  there  !" 

The  very  next  day  Matthew  Keen  entered  the 
bank  at  Derringford,  went  up  to  the  counter, 
untied  his  bag,  and,  pouring  its  contents  out 
before  the  astonished  cashier,  exclaimed  : 

"  There  be  eighty  pound.  Taake  care  of  un 
for  ma,  wull  'ee,  please !" 

"  But,  look  here " 

"  'Tis  all  right,  sir.  They  be  good  uns,  but 
I  en't  goin'  to  kip  'em  at  hoame  no  moare, 
lookee.  And  I'll  taake  a  set  o'  them  'ere 
cheques,  if  you  please,  sir." 

It  was  with  difficulty  that  it  was  explained 
to  him  that  this  method  of  opening  an  account 
by  a  person  quite  unknown  at  the  bank  was 
scarcely  in  order.  However,  being  market  day, 
he  soon  found  a  farmer — a  customer  of  the 
bank — to  introduce  him  properly. 

He's  all  right,"  exclaimed  the  latter,  to  the 
bank  manager,  into  whose  sanctum  they  were 
shown ;  "  honest  as  the  day.  I've  dealt  with 
him  these  forty  years,  eh,  Matthew  ?  I  don't 
wonder  at  your  taking  to  banking  your  money 


MATTERS  OF  MONEY  73 

after  what  I  heard  this  morning.  But  'twill 
be  a  penny  every  time  you  draw  a  cheque, 
Matthew,  ho,  ho,  ho !" 

Matthew  Keen  shook  his  head  sadly. 

"  I  knows  'tis  expensive,"  he  said,  "  but  what 
else  be  I  to  do  ?" 


A  VETERAN 


VI 
A  VETERAN 

PAASON  went  over  to  the  next  village  to  attend 
the  funeral  of  the  old  rector  there — indeed,  all 
the  paasons  in  the  neighbourhood  were  gathered 
together  to  do  reverence  to  the  memory  of  the 
oldest  of  their  fraternity  for  many  miles.  He 
had  exceeded  the  allotted  span  by  a  quarter 
of  a  century,  in  harness  almost  to  the  very 
last. 

Sixty  years  rector  of  a  tiny  Downland 
village  !  Sixty  years  !  There  were  old  men  of 
seventy,  leaning  on  their  sticks  that  day,  dis- 
cussing him  after  the  funeral,  and  saying,  "Ah! 
He  give  me  one  or  two  rare  good  hidin's  when 
I  were  a  boy !"  Generation  upon  generation 
he  had  been  with  them — almost  a  part  of  hoary 
Time  himself. 

Of  the  old  regime,  of  course.  White  mutton- 
chop  whiskers,  steady,  compressed  lips  and 
piercing  bright  eyes.  Fond  of  his  own  way, 
and  a  bit  of  a  martinet.  It  was  part  of  his 
character  that  he  took  the  law  into  his  own 

77 


78  DOWNLAND  ECHOES 

hands  in  his  earlier  days  and  thrashed  re- 
calcitrant youth,  and  they  never  bore  him 
malice. 

Within  a  few  years  of  his  death  he  was  riding 
his  nag  over  the  Downs,  bolt  upright  in  his 
saddle.  Towards  the  end  he  was  content  to 
drive  in  his  trap — but  nobody  was  ever  allowed 
to  drive  him.  He  was  always  lord  and  master 
in  his  own  house,  and  out  in  the  parish. 

So  they  gathered  together  to  lay  him  to  rest, 
and  old  John  Hall,  the  sexton,  slowly  rattled 
down  earth  on  the  coffin-top  as  soon  as  they 
left  the  churchyard.  John  Hall,  sexton 
parochially,  in  his  private  capacity  had  been 
the  Rector's  gardener  for  forty  years,  and  was 
nearly  as  old  as  the  master  for  whom  he  was 
doing  the  last  grim  service. 

He  paused  in  his  work  to  take  a  last  look  at 
the  remaining  uncovered  patch  of  the  coffin. 

"  Ah,"  he  murmured,  "  thee  wast  an  orkard 
man  at  toimes,  but  I  shall  miss  'ee,  all  the  saiime, 
maiister.  Thee  warn't  a  bad  un,  all  things 
reckoned  up.  I  moaght  'a  done  worse  nor  'a 
staayed  wi'  'ee." 

And  he  spit  on  his  hands,  took  up  his  shovel, 
and  the  earth  went  crashing  down  into  the 
grave.  It  was  a  rough  requiem  for  the  old 
master,  but  it  meant  a  deal  more  than  his 
manner  of  expressing  it. 


A  VETERAN  79 

He  was  right.  He  would  miss  the  old 
master.  They  knew  each  other  so  well  that  they 
could  even  quarrel  familiarly.  Which  they 
did.  There  was  the  famous  scene  overheard 
the  other  side  of  the  garden  wall  by  a  passer- 
by, and  retailed  accordingly  in  the  taproom 
for  weeks  afterwards,  the  famous,  if  not  exactly 
subtle,  repartee — or  whatever  you  like  to  call 
it — that  John  Hall  had  made  to  his  master. 
The  subject  of  discussion  was  the  planting  out 
of  bedding  flowers,  and  the  Rector  had  evidently 
been  giving  contradictory  directions.  For  what 
John  Hall  was  heard  to  say  was  this : 

"  Look  here,  maaster,  first  you  says  ger- 
aniums wi'  a  border  o'  lobelias,  then  you  says 
calcylarium  'stead  o'  lobelias,  and  then  you 
goes  and  says  pansies.  Wot  th'  hell  do  'ee 
want  ?" 

"  What  did  the  Rector  say  to  that  ?"  the 
eavesdropper  was  asked. 

"  Didn't  sim  to  me  as  if  'a  said  nothin',  'cept 
'John,  John.'  What  could  'a  saay?  'A 
couldn't  swear  back,  bein'  a  paa'son,  could  'a  ?" 

"  No,"  was  the  response.  "  Reckon  John 
Hall  had  the  best  of  un  there !" 

Perhaps  John  Hall  considered  he  still  had 
the  best  of  his  old  master,  as  he  shovelled  the 
earth  upon  his  coffin.  He  felt  in  the  proud 
position  of  survivor. 


80  DOWNLAND  ECHOES 

The  old  Rector  had  lived  his  life  in  the 
village  very  quietly  with  the  people,  and  yet 
greatly  apart  from  the  people.  Of  course,  he 
sympathised  with  them  in  their  various  troubles; 
of  course,  beef  tea  and  milk  puddings  had  been 
going  forth  from  the  Rectory  for  over  half  a 
century,  and  half-crowns  emanating  from  the 
Rector's  waistcoat  pocket  during  an  equal 
length  of  time.  He  was  kindly  enough,  and 
they  liked  him,  and  were  used  to  him,  but  it 
was  a  question  whether  he  understood  their 
point  of  view,  or  ever  knew  the  changing  spirit 
of  the  times.  He  was  so  simple  and  guileless. 
It  is  doubtful  whether  he  ever  understood  that 
the  open  Bible  on  old  Widow  Bond's  table, 
prominent  whenever  he  paid  a  visit  (she  could 
see  him  coming  up  the  path)  had  any  connec- 
tion with  the  equivalent  of  thirty  pieces  of 
copper  nestling  in  readiness  in  his  pocket,  any- 
more than  he  was  aware  when  he  was  explain- 
ing political  questions  to  his  two  churchwardens 
that  they  judged  him  exceedingly  out  of  date 
when  they  discussed  him  afterwards. 

His  life  was  very  sheltered,  remote.  He 
rejoiced  in  one  central,  great  possession — or, 
rather,  the  possession  of  the  church — a  bit  of 
Saxon  wall  still  intact  in  the  structure.  No 
one  was  ever  brought  by  friends  to  the  Rectory 
without  being  told,  very  soon,  "  We  have  a 


A  VETERAN  81 

Saxon  wall  in  the  church  here.  Quite  genuine." 
Hundreds  and  hundreds  of  times  he  had  taken 
people  through  the  little  door  from  his  garden 
into  the  churchyard,  and  into  the  church,  to 
see  that  Saxon  wall.  Thousands  of  times  he 
had  stood  upon  the  same  spot,  describing  in 
the  same  words,  that  Saxon  wall.  Half  a 
dozen  or  more  Sundays  every  year  he  brought 
into  his  sermon  a  reference  to  it,  so  that 
everyone  in  the  village  knew  that  the  church 
had  a  Saxon  wall,  but  didn't  care  one  little 
jot  about  it,  and  probably  couldn't  have 
pointed  out  whereabouts  it  was. 

"  T'oodn't  be  like  the  Rector  if  'a  didn't 
saiiy  summat  about  that  'ere  old  wall  in  his 
sarmons  sometoimes.  'A  be  that  fond  o'  that 
wall,  you  wouldn't  hardly  believe  it !" 

But  his  calm  life  was  not  without  its  ad- 
venturous side.  He  was  wont  to  make  great 
discoveries.  And  whenever  he  made  a  great 
discovery  he  imparted  the  same  to  his  people, 
whom  he  invariably  assumed  to  be  in  total 
ignorance  of  the  facts  upon  which  he  had  so 
wondrously  stumbled. 

Thus,  three  of  the  great  discoveries  of  his 
latter  years  were  long-distance  express  trains, 
electric  light  in  dwelling-houses,  and  picture 
postcards. 

It  was  not  that  he  had  never  travelled  by 

6 


82  DOWNLAND  ECHOES 

train ;  of  course  he  had.  But,  somehow  or 
other,  it  was  not  till  he  was  well  in  the 
eighties  that  he  had  ever  taken  a  journey 
by  a  train  that  ran  150  miles  without  a 
stop. 

And  the  Sunday  after  he  returned  he 
preached  about  his  great  discovery. 

"  Dear  friends,"  he  said,  in  the  course  of  his 
sermon,  "  try  to  imagine  it.  Derringford  is 
five  miles  from  this  village.  Thirty  times  that 
distance,  my  friends,  and  without  stopping  I 
Or  imagine  going  to  Derringford  and  back 
fifteen  times  in  succession  and  never  stopping 
at  either  end.  I  thought  of  you — I  thought 
of  you  all.  I  said  to  myself  as  we  whirled 
along,  *  I  wish  the  dear  people  of  Camford 
could  be  here  to  experience  it  for  themselves.' 
The  works  of  man  are  truly  marvellous." 

From  this  he  made  comparisons  with  the 
more  wonderful  works  of  God,  but,  somehow 
or  other,  the  general  impression  on  the  rustic 
mind  was  that,  when  it  came  to  a  matter  of 
express  trains,  the  Almighty  was  considerably 
out  of  it. 

It  was  while  at  the  seaside,  where  he  had 
taken  a  house  for  a  six  weeks'  holiday,  that 
he  discovered  the  electric  light.  As  he  care- 
fully explained  while  visiting  one  of  his  better- 
class  parishioners  on  his  return,  "  One  came 


A  VETERAN  83 

into  the  room  and  found,  just  inside  the  door, 
a  little  sort  of  knob  in  the  wall — quite  small. 
One  pressed  this  knob,  and  in  a  moment — in 
a  moment,  Mrs.  Findlay "  (and  he  leaned  for- 
ward in  his  chair),  "the  whole  room  was 
flooded  with  a  brilliant  light.  Wonderful ! 
Wonderful !" 

It  was  quite  possible  that  he  might  have 
been  in  rooms  lighted  by  electricity  before, 
but  the  point  of  the  discovery  was  that  he  had 
never  turned  it  on  himself — or  seen  it  turned 
on  previous  to  this  occasion. 

The  discovery  of  the  picture  postcards  was 
also  made  while  on  holiday,  but  he  did  not 
wait  until  his  return  before  imparting  it.  He 
sent  packets  of  postcards  to  his  two  church- 
wardens and  several  other  favoured  parishioners, 
with  covering  letters  on  which  he  wrote  care- 
fully :  "  You  will  find  a  space  reserved  for  the 
address,  also  another  space  of  similar  size. 
On  the  latter  you  can  write  any  communica- 
tion you  desire.  You  then  affix  a  halfpenny 
stamp  in  the  small  space  provided  for  it,  and 
drop  the  card  into  a  letter-box.  They  strike 
me  as  combining  beauty  and  usefulness  with 
extreme  simplicity." 

And  when  he  came  back  he  made  diligent 
inquiries  as  to  whether  the  cards  had  been 
used  according  to  his  directions,  with  the  air 


84  DOWNLAND  ECHOES 

of  one  who  believed  himself  to  be  a  benefactor 
to  the  ignorant.  And,  indeed,  in  his  simplicity, 
he  did  believe  this. 

Tough  old  man  as  he  was,  he  had  to  begin 
to  go  downhill  at  last.  When  he  was  in 
the  nineties  folks  looked  at  him  as  he 
trudged  "up  street,"  shook  their  heads,  and 
said: 

"  Ah,  Paiison  begins  to  look  oldish,  'a  do. 
Not  so  spry  as  'a  were  thutty  years  ago.  How 
time  do  fly,  to  be  sure  !  Paiison's  a-gettin'  on, 
I  reckon  1" 

He  was  "  a-gettin'  on."  But  it  was  a  long 
time  before  he  would  allow  it  to  be  so.  He 
was  ever  orkard,  was  the  Rector.  At  length, 
slowly  and  reluctantly,  he  agreed  with  those 
who  studied  his  health  that  it  might  be  a 
good  thing  to  engage  a  curate — to  fall  back 
upon.  He  had  no  idea,  to  begin  with,  so  it 
was  supposed,  that  a  curate  would  do  anything 
except  act  as  a  stand-by. 

Still,  he  was  in  no  hurry.  He  went  about 
it  leisurely,  but  at  last  did  engage  a  curate. 
It  was1  about  time.  Several  times  he  had 
found  it  a  great  effort  to  get  through  all  his 
Sunday  services  and  preach  twice.  Time  was 
laying  his  inexorable  hand  upon  him. 

So,  the  curate  came.  But  the  old  Rector, 
having  had  his  own  way  for  sixty  years,  had  no 


A  VETERAN  85 

idea  of  the  modern  relationship  between  in- 
cumbent and  curate.  So,  when  the  latter 
preached  his  first  sermon — on  the  Unjust 
Steward,  that  being  the  subject  of  the  day's 
gospel — the  old  man,  unaccustomed  to  hear 
sermons  preached  from  his  own  pulpit,  sat 
with  hand  to  his  ear  in  great  attention,  and 
frowned  more  and  more  ominously  as  the  ser- 
mon proceeded. 

Scarcely  had  the  curate  finished — he  was 
still  in  the  pulpit — before  the  Rector  was  on 
his  feet,  facing  the  congregation,  with  a  view  to 
public  criticism. 

"  It  is  most  unfortunate,"  he  said,  "  that  in 
the  sermon  you  have  just  listened  to — which 
in  many  respects  was  an  admirable  one — that 
Mr.  Langton  omitted  to  mention  that  the 
'  lord  '  in  the  parable  is  spelt  with  a  small '  1 ', 
and  does  not  mean  our  Saviour.  Our  Saviour, 
of  course,  would  not  have  commended  the  un- 
just steward.  It  is  a  great  pity  Mr.  Langton 
did  not  explain  this  to  you  !" 

Then  he  gave  out  the  hymn,  and  the  un- 
fortunate curate  came  down  from  the  pulpit. 
He  was,  probably,  the  only  perturbed  person 
in  the  church.  The  Rector  certainly  was  not 
perturbed,  and  the  congregation  were  so  accus- 
tomed to  colloquial  and  peculiar  announce- 
ments from  him,  that  they  took  it  all  as  a 


86  DOWNLAND  ECHOES 

matter  of  course.  And  lie  was  only  trying  to 
save  their  orthodoxy ! 

So  the  hand  of  time  pressed  more  and  more 
relentlessly  upon  him,  pressed  till  it  did  its 
work  and  released  him  for  ever.  And  so  they 
gathered  round  to  lay  his  bones  to  rest  near  the 
Saxon  wall  he  loved  so  well. 

John  Hall  filled  up  the  grave — a  long  mound 
on  the  top.  He  patted  this  into  shape  with 
his  shovel  and  looked  at  it  critically. 

"  Th'  old  master  was  allus  partic'lar  about 
fmishin'  on  'em  up,"  he  murmured. 

A  few  more  pats  with  the  shovel ;  a  further 
inspection : 

"  Ah  1  I  reckon  'a  'oodn't  ha'  found  much 
wrong  wi'  that.  T'ood  ha' pleased  un,  nicely." 

He  stood  there  for  a  moment,  a  sigh  escaping 
him. 

"  God  rest  his  soul,"  he  muttered,  uncover- 
ing his  head  as  he  did  so. 

He  picked  up  the  wreaths  that  were  lying 
about  and  arranged  them,  one  after  another,  on 
the  top  of  the  grave.  His  handiwork  finished, 
he  stood  gazing  down  on  it. 

"  Shan't  never  see  he  no  moiire — leastways, 
not  about  these  paiirts.  If  I  ever  gets  to 
heaven,  please  God,  I'll  find  un  there,  I 
reckon." 

He  took  his  coat  from  a  neighbouring  tomb- 


A  VETERAN  87 

stone,  where  he  had  hung  it,  put  it  on,  and 
exclaimed : 

"  'Tis  dry  work — fillin'  up  a  graave  this 
weather."  Then  he  tucked  his  shovel  under 
his  arm  and,  with  sad,  heavy,  slow  steps,  took 
his  way  towards  the  Barley  Mow. 


THE  MEADOW 


Vll 
THE  MEADOW 

"  A  sense  of  mystery  the  spirit  daunted 
And  said,  as  plain  as  whisper  in  the  ear, 
'  The  place  is  haunted.'  " 

So  sang  Thomas  Hood  in  one  of  the  most 
imaginative  poems  ever  written.  There  was 
nothing  tangible  to  go  upon,  the  story  of  a 
possible  crime  had  to  be  evolved  in  the  brain. 
No  ghost  or  other  apparition  was  seen — only 
there-  was  the  mysterious  atmosphere  of  the  old 
house,  an  atmosphere  that  appalled  the  spirit 
by  its  very  lack  of  anything  real  and  material. 
Who  shah1  ever  fathom  this  atmosphere  of 
the  mysterious,  especially  when  the  mysterious 
takes  the  sense  of  an  appaUing  gloom,  and  the 
silence  of  it  penetrates  the  soul  and  makes  one 
shudder  ?  You  sometimes  find  it  in  a  grim  old 
house,  and  you  are  not  entirely  surprised, 
because  you  believe,  perhaps,  that  the  psycho- 
logy of  bygone  inmates  who  dwelt  therein  still 
hovers  in  the  dark  corners  and  passages,  still 
affects  the  cramped  surroundings.  But  when 
you  find  this  atmosphere  out  in  God's  open 
country,  where  the  sunshine  of  years  ought  to 

91 


92  DOWNLAND  ECHOES 

burn  up  all  the  gloom,  and  the  fresh  winds  of 
heaven  ought  to  sweep  away  all  dark  mysteries 
— then  the  sense  of  a  great  horror,  never  to 
be  solved,  has  you  in  its  keeping  and  you 
shudder. 

Such  a  place  was  the  meadow — absolutely 
separated,  in  its  dreadful  atmosphere,  from  all 
its  sweet  surroundings. 

You  walked  away  from  the  village  that 
clustered  at  the  foot  of  the  great  open  Downs, 
walked  along  a  fair  path,  bordered  on  either 
side  by  golden  wheat  glittering  in  the  sun- 
light, waving  in  ripples  before  the  breeze,  the 
joy  and  the  freedom  of  nature  entering  your 
soul.  Anon  you  came  to  a  stream,  at  the 
farther  edge  of  the  broad  field,  crossed  by  a 
little  wooden  bridge,  and  you  paused  a  moment 
to  take  a  backward  glance.  Across  the  corn- 
land  stood  the  trees  and  red  and  thatched 
roofs  of  the  village,  blue  smoke  curling  up- 
wards. Beyond,  the  Downs,  yellow  unto 
harvest  on  the  lower  slopes,  green  up  to  the 
outline  against  the  sky,  with  the  dark  patches 
of  copses  and  the  straggling  sentinels  of 
solitary  trees.  Faintly  there  came  the  sounds 
of  life — a  dog  barking,  a  cock  proclaiming  his 
dunghill  pre-eminence,  the  clatter  of  a  reaping 
machine  in  the  farther  field,  the  cry  of  a  yokel 
shouting  to  his  mate.  The  little  stream 


THE  MEADOW  93 

beneath  you  swirled  and  rippled.  There  was 
no  disturbing  element.  You  felt  at  peace  with 
the  world  and  with  yourself. 

And  then  —  you  crossed  the  stream  and 
entered,  over  a  stile  in  a  gap  through  the 
surrounding  hedge,  the  meadow. 

It  was  only  an  ordinary  meadow.  Quite 
small,  and  of  irregular  shape.  A  big,  thick,  tall, 
uncut  hedge  surrounded  it  —  a  hedge  that 
looked  as  if  it  had  never  been  cut  since  it  was 
first  planted.  Great  straggling  tangles  of 
blackberry  brambles  hung  from  the  hedge  and 
crept  forward  over  the  grass,  laden  with 
fruit  which  no  children  ever  gathered.  For, 
somehow  or  other,  you  never  saw  any  of  the 
village  children  in  that  meadow.  You  could 
not  have  fancied  them  there.  It  was  never 
meant  to  be  a  place  for  the  games  and  laughter 
of  the  young. 

The  path  lay  across  the  meadow  from 
corner  to  corner,  a  thin  line  of  brown, 
hardened  earth,  between  the  green.  But  the 
green  was  not  beautiful.  There  was  some- 
thing repulsive  about  it.  The  surface  was 
uneven.  Clumps  of  rushes  grew  in  the 
hollows ;  moles  had  thrown  up  innumerable 
heaps  on  the  more  highly  raised  surface.  The 
grass  was  rank  and  coarse,  growing  here 
sparingly,  there  in  great  tussocks. 


94  DOWNLAND  ECHOES 

Directly  you  entered  the  meadow  there  was 
a  great  change — a  sudden  silence  and  chill  fell 
upon  you.  No  matter  how  fresh  and  sweet 
the  breeze  outside,  whether  the  great  hedge 
had  anything  to  do  with  it  or  not,  there  was  a 
stillness,  the  sense  of  a  great  stagnation,  power- 
fully oppressive.  The  sun  still  shone,  but 
seemed  to  have  lost  its  warmth  ;  the  very  light 
seemed  thinner,  unreal. 

Stillness.  Coldness.  Dimness.  You  were 
oppressed  by  the  sense  of  all  three. 

But  this  was  not  all. 

As  you  slowly  crossed  the  meadow  there 
was  borne  in  upon  you  another  sense,  an  awful, 
burdening  sense. 

Something  seemed  to  be  present.  Something 
quite  distinct  from  the  stillness,  the  coldness, 
and  the  dimness.  Something  that  was  quite 
intangible,  and  yet  real.  Something  that  you 
felt  had  its  habitation  in  that  meadow,  an 
utterly  unholy  presence  that  made  the  place 
an  abode  of  unutterable  wrong  and  wickedness. 
It  was  not  the  mere  stillness  that  oppressed 
you,  not  the  mere  sense  of  coldness  that  sent  a 
shiver  through  you,  not  the  dimness  that  made 
you  look  questioningly  to  see  if  the  sun  were 
still  shining,  but  the  appalling  mystery  of  a 
living,  indefinable  Something  that  walked  be- 
side you,  that  resented  your  presence  there, 


THE  MEADOW  95 

that  even  threatened  you — Something  unhal- 
lowed, evil,  lost ! 

The  horror  increased  in  intensity  as  you 
crossed  the  meadow  and  drew  near  the  outlet 
on  the  farther  side.  It  seemed  to  culminate 
just  there,  as  if  it  mvst,  at  last,  become  visible, 
as  if  there  were  no  longer  any  escape  from  it. 

At  this  outlet  you  stepped  into  a  lane  that 
ran  parallel  with  the  top  of  the  meadow.  But 
not  a  lane  that  you  felt  ought  to  exist  at  all : 
a  lane  that  was  dark  and  weird,  overhung  with 
tree  branches  so  sheltered  that  not  a  leaf 
moved,  a  lane  that  was  grassy  and  damp  and 
mysterious,  and  as  horrible  in  its  atmosphere 
as  the  meadow  itself,  a  lane  that  never  seemed 
to  be  designed  for  the  use  of  mortal  man — that 
led  nowhere. 

Once  across  this  lane,  into  the  field  beyond, 
and  the  whole  surroundings  once  more  seemed 
different.  The  breeze  blew  freshly,  the  sun 
glowed  with  genial  warmth,  the  light  increased, 
and,  what  was  the  greatest  relief  of  all,  you 
felt  you  were  alone  once  more,  and  that  all 
was  fair  and  good  under  the  canopy  of  God's 
heaven — the  weird,  evil  thing  was  left  behind 
and  could  never  escape  from  that  hedge- 
enclosed  meadow  and  gloomy  lane  to  follow 
you  farther. 

These  were  the  facts.     There  was  no  ex- 


96  DOWNLAND  ECHOES 

planation  of  them.  No  doubt  those  who 
dabble  in  the  occult  would  have  told  you  all 
sorts  of  reasons — the  presence  of  one  of  those 
mysterious,  half  -  developed  entities  know  as 
elementals,  the  psychological  effects  of  some 
bygone  and  forgotten  crime,  the  haunting  of 
an  unshrived  and  disembodied  spirit.  Each  to 
his  choice.  But  there  was  no  local  tradition 
of  any  cause  or  event.  The  whole  thing  was 
a  mystery.  Of  the  imagination,  perhaps,  but 
still — a  mystery. 

Only  the  lane  that  ran  along  the  top  of  that 
horrible  meadow  was  commonly,  and  effec- 
tively, known  as  "  Cut  Throat  Lane  !"  And 
place-names  generally  have  their  origin  in 
something  !  Something  real  and  tangible. 


THE  SAINT'S  MOUND 


VIII 
THE  SAINT'S  MOUND 

IT  was  really  a  Romano- British  tumulus 
standing  alone  on  the  very  top  of  the  high 
Downs  overlooking  the  village.  Somehow  or 
other  a  solitary  fir-tree  had  become  planted  on 
its  summit  and  had  grown,  beaten  by  the  great 
winds  that  came  sweeping  over  the  expanse, 
into  a  twisted,  weird  shape,  that  seemed  to 
stand  there  like  a  broken-down  sentry  on 
lonely  outpost  duty. 

They  called  the  tumulus  the  "  Saint's 
Mound,"  because  they  said,  what  was  very 
possible,  that  the  apostle  of  Christianity  to  the 
downland  country  away  back  in  the  seventh 
century  had  preached  his  first  sermon,  stand- 
ing upon  this  very  eminence. 

It  may  have  been  so.  Anyhow  the  saint  in 
question,  a  missionary  from  sunny  climes,  had 
landed  somewhere  on  our  southern  coasts, 
pushing  northward  to  the  scene  of  his  labours. 
And  the  tumulus  stood  close  beside  what  used 
to  be  the  ancient  trackway  to  the  south. 
Long  since  disused,  but  even  yet  at  the  end  of 

99 


100  DOWNLAND  ECHOES 

a  very  dry  summer  you  could  trace  a  narrow 
track  through  the  corn,  where  it  was  stunted 
in  growth,  and  they  told  you  that  was  because 
it  covered  the  old,  hard  roadway  that  had  long 
ago  disappeared  beneath  plough  and  weather. 

If  the  saint  came  that  way  and  halted  by 
the  mound  it  must  have  been  a  memorable 
sight,  for  here,  tradition  said,  the  king  met 
with  him — that  King  of  the  Downland  who 
had  his  home  beside  the  river  in  the  plain 
below.  He  came  up  here,  so  it  was  said,  in 
stafcte  and  listened  to  the  tidings  of  the  White 
Christ  proclaimed  by  the  preacher  from  that 
pulpit  of  turf  under  God's  heaven — listened  to 
some  purpose,  for  it  was  not  long  afterwards 
that  he  was  baptised  by  the  saint  on  a  fail- 
spot  in  the  valley  beneath,  a  spot  that  is 
historically  famous. 

Perchance  they  all  came  down  together,  the 
king,  his  court,  and  the  saint,  through  the  spot 
where  the  village  lies  to-day.  Nay,  it  is  more 
than  possible  that  the  village  was  even  then 
existing,  for  a  manuscript  of  the  early  part  of 
the  tenth  century  refers  to  it  as  "  this  ancient 
and  venerable  place." 

Through  the  long  years  the  Saint's  Mound, 
that  solitary  hillock,  stood  on  the  Downs. 
From  many  miles  away  it  could  be  discerned, 
a  little  raised  lump  against  the  skyline.  Few 


THE  SAINTS  MOUND  101 

were  the  footsteps  that  came  near  it,  for  it  was 
a  bit  away  from  any  of  the  Down  paths,  and 
the  place  was  not  the  place  of  trippers. 
Where  the  saint  had  stood  centuries  before 
was  solitude — the  true  home  of  the  spirit  of 
the  Downs  were  he  in  calm  or  boisterous 
mood. 

You  reached  the  spot  after  a  bit  of  a  climb 
and  threw  yourself  down  on  the  rough  grass 
beneath  the  gnarled,  stunted  tree.  Lying 
there  you  were  on  the  roof  of  things,  where 
the  pure,  sweet  air  of  the  Downland  came  in 
great  inspiring  breaths,  rousing  the  corn  below 
into  waves  of  life,  sighing  through  the  trees  in 
the  copse  a  couple  of  hundred  yards  to  the 
eastward,  and  rustling  the  patches  of  longer 
grass  that  grew  on  the  old  tumulus. 

The  saint,  if,  indeed,  he  preached  here,  had 
a  wonderful  view  from  his  pulpit,  a  little 
altered  by  the  centuries  since  in  the  way  of 
cultivation  and  habitations,  but  the  same  in  its 
great  outline. 

Northward,  beneath  your  feet,  lay  the 
village ;  beyond  and  around  the  broad  plain. 
Somewhere  in  the  distance  was  the  river, 
hidden  by  trees.  Rising  abruptly  out  of  the 
plain,  just  by  the  river,  was  a  great  double  hill, 
crowned  by  earthworks,  commanding  one  of 
the  ancient  fords.  Beyond  the  river  rose  the 


102  DOWNLAND  ECHOES 

hills  of  another  county,  in  olden  days  another 
kingdom,  the  water  being  the  dividing  line. 

On  the  north-east  was  a  curious  spur  of  the 
Downs  running  right  out  into  the  great  plain, 
terminating  in  a  strange,  bare  hill  with 
entrenchments  on  its  slope.  If  the  story  was 
correct,  the  saint,  when  he  looked  over  to  that 
hill,  saw  nought  of  these  entrenchments. 
They  were  made  long  years  afterwards  by  a 
people  he  never  knew,  the  terrible  Danes  who 
ravaged  the  kingdom.  Over  there  was  fought, 
according  to  tradition,  a  great  battle  between 
the  men  of  the  Downlands  and  these  invaders. 

Eastward  ran  the  long  range  of  Downs, 
undulating,  soft,  and  rounded  in  form,  on  the 
highest  summit  the  outline  of  a  Roman  camp. 
Southward,  again,  the  lonely  Downs — a  great 
expanse  with  never  a  sign  of  a  habitation 
except  one  lonely  cottage,  flanked  by  stunted 
fir-trees  which  served  as  a  protection  against 
the  prevailing  south-west  wind.  Westward 
there  were  Downs,  too,  broken  up  with  long, 
gentle  slopes,  upland  plains  and  lowland 
country,  here  and  there  a  solitary  habitation. 
Just  at  the  edge  of  the  lower  slopes,  like  a 
long,  thin,  white  ribbon,  ran  the  road — the 
ancient  Roman  Port  Way,  a  road  for  the 
most  part  destitute  of  hedges,  exposed  and 
wind-swept,  skirting  the  sides  of  the  Downs 


THE  SAINT'S  MOUND  103 

and,  sometimes,  mounting  them  in  sinuous 
curves.  Every  few  miles  villages,  hidden 
among  trees  from  this  point  of  view,  flanked 
the  downland  road,  which  rarely  ran  through 
them — a  turning  out  of  the  Port  Way  led 
down  to  them.  Separate,  isolated  commu- 
nities were  these  downland  villages,  with 
seldom  even  a  house  on  the  road  between 
them.  Each  of  them  self-contained,  a  little 
world  of  characters  and  individualities.  Each 
one  with  its  own  particular  outlook  and 
idiosyncrasies.  They  even  recognised  that, 
somehow,  they  were  distinctive. 

"  They  Camford  folk  allus  were  a  reg'lar 
unked  lot,  allus  a  quarrelling  'bout  summat 
or  other.  You  gen'rally  hears  as  how  Little 
Marpleton  be  a  civil,  sober,  friendly  kind  o' 
plaace,  but  anyone  'ull  tell  'e  they  be  rare 
uns  to  drink  and  knock  one  another  about 
over  at  Lamton.  They  be  clean  folks  up 
there  at  Southbury,  but  they  do  say  they 
never  washes  theirselves  down  at  West 
Calham.  Ah,  Little  Marpleton  people  was 
allus  good  churchgoers,  but  they  fills  the 
chapels  at  Great  Tarlington.  There  en't  no 
accountin'  for  it." 

Certainly  the  saint  never  saw  the  white 
streamers  of  steam  in  the  distance,  creeping 
along  the  iron  roads  from  three  directions  that 


104  DOWNLAND  ECHOES 

converged  on  the  junction,  the  link  with  the 
outer  world  of  bustling  humanity  that  was  so 
far  removed  from  the  quiet  Downs.  But  that 
was  another  world  altogether,  for  him,  and  for 
the  dwellers  in  Downland  now.  This  was  the 
world  of  space  and  freedom  and  great  distances, 
very  much  like  what  the  saint  himself  must 
have  found  it  when  he  turned  his  steps  from 
landing  on  our  southern  shores  to  evangelise 
the  unknown. 

Westward,  over  the  line  of  the  hills,  the  sun 
went  down.  A  straggling  line  of  trees  stood 
out  against  the  glow.  The  lower  slopes  became 
shaded  in  purple  distance ;  the  early  autumn 
mist  gathered  thinly  over  the  plain ;  the  tree 
clumps  darkened  ;  the  wind  came  sighing  over 
the  grass,  lamenting  the  dying  day  ;  a  solitary 
labourer  living  in  one  of  those  distant  cottages 
came  tramping  along  the  path  below  you  on 
the  side  of  the  hill  with  toil- weary  steps,  basket 
over  shoulder,  making  homewards. 

So  you  came  down  into  the  village,  leaving 
the  Saint's  Mound  with  its  twisted  tree  to 
watch  through  the  night.  The  Downland 
became  wrapt  in  shadow  and  mystery,  hiding 
its  eternal  secrets  under  the  pale  stars. 


THE  CURFEW 


THE  CURFEW 

IN  the  winter  months  the  ringing  of  the  curfew 
brought  the  day  to  an  end.  They  kept  ancient 
dates  in  the  village,  reckoning  these  winter 
months  in  old  style.  Wherefore  the  first 
ringing  of  the  curfew  was  on  the  night  of  the 
eleventh  of  October,  that  being  "  Old  Michael- 
mas Day,"  and  the  last  was  upon  April  the 
sixth—"  Old  Lady  Day." 

The  ringing  of  the  curfew  always  seemed  so 
real — something  more  than  the  mere  memory  of 
a  worn-out  custom.  It  seemed  to  close  the  day 
with  all  its  toils  and  labours,  to  ring  out  that 
all  was  done,  to  ring  to  rest. 

The  manner  of  the  actual  ringing  was  this  : 

A  little  before  eight  o'clock,  Jim  Stacey, 
parish  clerk  and  sexton,  took  down  his  old 
horn  lantern  from  its  nail  on  the  kitchen  wall, 
opened  it,  lighted  the  stump  of  the  candle 
therein,  and  fared  forth  into  the  night.  In 
good  time,  for  there  were  pretty  sure  to  be 
greetings  on  the  way,  greetings  that  came 
through  the  darkness — 

"  How  be,  Jim  ?" 

107 


108  DOWNLAND  ECHOES 

"What— be  that  you,  Ezra?  I  thought 
'twas.  How  be  things,  then  ?" 

"Purty  middlin',  thankee.  Missus,  she've 
got  the  rheumatics  agen.  Nigh  on  curfew 
time  then,  Jim  ?" 

"  Ah.  Just  goin'  to  ring  un.  Good-night, 
Ezra." 

"  Good-night,  Jim." 

Jim  progressed  a  little  farther,  only  to  be 
stopped  by  Mrs.  Lovejoy.  The  latter  wished 
to  impart  a  piece  of  news. 

"  I've  just  seen  Tom  Bates,  Muster  Stacey. 
Dunno  as  'a  can  go  on  much  longer.  Tur'ble 
baad  'a  looks.  En't  there  room  fur  he  side  of 
his  brother  ?  They  were  askin'  about  it." 

Jim  Stacey  shook  his  head.  As  actual 
sexton  he  had  the  better  memory. 

"  No,"  he  replied  ;  "  we  put  Sally  Tipper  in 
there — ah — three  year  ago,  'twas.  Doan't  you 
reck'lect  ?" 

"  Ah,  so  us  did,"  replied  Mrs.  Lovejoy.  "  I 
oughter  ha'  knowed  that.  I  laid  her  out  and 
came  to  the  buryin'.  O'  course  1  Well,  good- 
night, Muster  Stacey.  I'll  tell  Tom  Bates  'a'll 
have  to  be  put  somewhere  else  !" 

Jim  Stacey  wished  her  good-night,  entered 
the  churchyard,  and  strode,  with  heavy,  clank- 
ing boots,  up  the  stone-paved  path  leading  to 
the  south  door  of  the  church,  his  lantern 


THE  CURFEW  109 

swinging  in  his  hand.  He  passed  into  the 
church,  closing  the  door  behind  him  and  bolt- 
ing it.  For  many  years  the  huge,  ancient  lock 
of  the  great  weather-beaten,  oaken  south  door 
had  been  out  of  order,  and  the  only  way  to 
fasten  it  was  to  bolt  it  from  the  inside. 

Jim  Stacey  walked  slowly  through  the  dark 
church  to  the  western  tower.  Here,  in  one  of 
the  angles,  he  unlocked  a  small  door  and 
began  to  ascend  the  narrow  winding  stairway, 
the  stones  of  which  were  hollow  in  the  centre 
from  generations  of  footsteps.  At  length  he 
reached  the  level  of  the  ringing  chamber, 
another  little  door  leading  into  it. 

A  large,  square  chamber.  On  the  western 
side  the  fine  perpendicular  window,  in  the 
north-west  corner  the  old  clock  in  its  heavy 
wooden  case.  From  above,  through  holes  in 
the  oak  ceiling,  the  eight  bell  ropes  hanging, 
with  their  long,  coloured  "sallies,"  coiled  at 
the  ends,  for  the  bells  were  always  kept  "  up," 
with  the  exception  of  the  tenor. 

Jim  Stacey  stood  his  lantern  on  the  stone 
window-sill.  It  was  very  silent  in  the  ringing 
chamber,  with  the  exception  of  the  monotonous, 
heavy  ticking  of  the  great  clock.  He  fitted 
the  key,  a  big  crank,  on  the  socket,  and 
wound  it  up — first  the  clock,  then  the  striking 
mechanism. 


110  DOWNLAND  ECHOES 

Then  he  sat  down — there  were  a  few  wooden 
chairs  in  the  ringing  chamber — and  waited  in 
silence.  A  watcher  of  old  Time.  He  stretched 
out  his  legs,  crossed  them,  folded  his  arms 
across  his  chest,  and  slowly  bowed  his  head. 
For  Jim  Stacey  had  come  to  the  end  of  a  long 
day's  work,  and  was  tired. 

Suddenly  there  was  a  metallic  "  click,"  a 
whirr  of  machinery,  the  jerky  tightening  of 
a  wire  that  ran  from  the  clock  case  up  through 
the  oaken  floor  above  to  the  belfry,  and  then, 
overhead,  the  big  hammer  struck  the  tenor 
bell. 

"  Boom !" 

Eight  times — well  spaced  between — the 
deep,  resonant  note  rang  out  into  the  night, 
filling  the  tower  with  its  quivering,  lingering 
sound. 

Jim  Stacey  had  risen  to  his  feet.  He  un- 
coiled the  end  of  the  rope  of  the  seventh  bell, 
held  the  end  with  his  left  hand,  taking  a  little 
turn  in  it,  stretched  upwards,  grasped  the 
"sallie"  with  both  hands,  and  stood,  rigid 
and  ready. 

Before  the  last  "boom"  of  the  tenor  bell 
had  died  away,  he  pulled  the  "  sallie  "  steadily 
downwards.  The  great  bell  overhead  swung 
over,  the  rope  flew  up,  and  "  clang "  sounded 
the  first  note  of  the  curfew  as  the  bell  came 


THE  CURFEW  111 

round.  Not  so  deep  or  resounding  a  tone  as 
that  of  the  tenor,  but  more  piercing. 

He  gave  an  almost  imperceptible  pull  at 
the  end  of  the  rope,  and  it  came  swirling 
down,  rattling  upon  the  floor.  The  bell  came 
over  again  and  clanged  its  message  to  the 
village  below.  For  several  minutes,  in  regular 
strokes,  the  bell  rang  out.  Then,  as  the  rope 
flew  upwards,  he  omitted  the  little  pull.  The 
bell  stopped.  The  sound  ceased. 

He  let  go  of  the  rope  for  a  minute  and 
left  it  dangling  above  his  head.  He  waited. 
Then  he  reached  up  to  it  once  more — and 
pulled. 

Fifteen  times  the  seventh  bell  spoke. 
Fifteen  times,  to  remind  the  village  that  the 
fifteenth  day  of  the  month  was  dying.  Fifteen 
knells  to  mark  its  departure. 

So  rang  the  curfew !  They  heard  it  in  the 
village  below.  Farmer  Wood,  sitting  by  his 
fireside,  pipe  in  mouth,  bethought  him  that 
the  day's  "sheening"  had  gone  well.  The 
landlord  of  the  Blue  Lion  sauntered  into 
his  taproom,  expectant  of  "reg'lars."  Poor 
old  Sally  Hemming  thanked  God  that  her 
"browntitis"  had  been  a  little  better  that 
day.  The  carrier,  on  his  slow  way  homeward 
from  Derringford,  welcomed  the  sound  that 
told  him  he  was  nearly  at  the  end  of  his  day's 


112  DOWNLAND  ECHOES 

work.  Tom  Horner,  away  up  on  the  Downs, 
intent  upon  questionable  business,  heard  the 
sound  in  the  valley  below  and  slightly  changed 
his  direction,  for  thin  mists  were  skidding 
across  the  uplands,  and  it  was  not  easy  to  find 
one's  way  that  night. 

Another  day  had  passed  over  the  Downland. 
So  sounded  the  message  of  the  curfew. 

Jim  Stacey  stopped,  coiled  the  rope,  took 
up  his  lantern,  and  prepared  to  descend  the 
dark,  narrow  stairway. 

The  curfew  had  been  rung  once  more. 

His  heavy  footsteps  clattered  through  the 
silent  church.  Fitful  gleams  of  his  lantern 
shone  on  tablets  and  brasses — memorials  of 
those  who  had  heard  the  curfew  ring  so  many 
years  ago.  The  church  was  very  quiet  and 
peaceful.  There  were  no  haunting  shadows 
in  the  gloom.  Centuries  of  simple  devotion 
had,  surely,  affected  the  atmosphere. 

He  went  out  through  the  north  doorway, 
closed  the  door  after  him  with  a  heavy  clang, 
inserted  the  big  key  in  the  keyhole  and  locked 
it  with  a  jangle  and  rattle  of  the  bolt,  said 
good-night  to  a  passing  villager,  walked  round 
the  west  tower  to  the  southern  path. 

Just  across  the  way,  as  he  left  the  church- 
yard, a  door  stood  open,  the  light  streaming 
out.  It  was  the  little  club-room  of  the  village 


THE  CURFEW  113 

Jim   Stacey  put    his    head   inside   the  door. 
Greetings  ensued. 

Schoolmaster  was  smoking  his  pipe,  sitting 
by  the  fire,  newspaper  in  hand.  Two  youths 
were  engaged  in  billiards  on  the  half-size  table 
the  club  boasted.  The  grocer  sat  at  a  table, 
pack  of  cards  in  hand,  waiting  for  a  stray 
adversary. 

"  Hullo,  Jim ;  come  and  have  a  game  o' 
crib." 

But  Jim  shook  his  head. 

"  I  be  tired,"  he  said ;  "  I  'oodn't  ha' 
come  out  at  all  without  'twas  to  ring 
curfew." 

"  Come  in  /"  said  schoolmaster,  but  only 
elicited  a  general  "  good-night "  from  the  clerk 
and  sexton. 

Lights  were  already  apparent  at  some  of 
the  upper  windows  in  the  village.  For  some 
of  them  went  to  bed  early  in  Little  Marpleton. 
They  got  up  so  early ! 

Jim  Stacey  entered  his  cosy  kitchen,  took 
off  his  boots,  put  his  feet  in  the  fender,  and 
gave  a  yawn  of  satisfaction  as  Mrs.  Stacey  set 
bread  and  cheese  and  beer  on  the  table  beside 
him. 

If  the  ringing  of  the  curfew  once  meant  the 
outputting  of  fires,  to  Jim  Stacey,  the  actual 
ringer  of  to-day,  it  heralded  three  of  life's  best 


114  DOWNLAND  ECHOES 

things — supper,  a   pipe   by  his  own   fireside, 
and  bed ! 

And  so  the  curfew  rang  out  the  passing 
days  of  simple  lives.  For  there  was  little  else 
to  mark  them  ! 


THE  DANCE 


X 

THE  DANCE 

A  DANCE  in  those  days  was  always  a  solem- 
nity. It  ever  recalled  that  early  Victorian 
word  "genteel."  Even  that  stern  old  non- 
conformist, of  the  Particular  Baptist  persua- 
sion, Mrs.  Bardley,  saw  no  objection  to  a  dance. 
Not  that  she  ever  went  to  one,  or  went  to  any 
public  functions — except  for  her  chapel — but 
she  was  a  great  critic  and  denunciator  of  all 
amusements.  Concerts  were  an  abomination, 
the  human  voice  being  only  intended  by  the 
Creator  for  hymn  singing.  Instrumental 
music  that  was  not  strictly  of  a  sacred 
character  emanated  from  the  wicked  one. 
Magic  lanterns,  on  account  of  the  name, 
savoured  of  witchcraft.  As  she  once  told 
Paason  to  his  face : 

"  The  Scripture  says,  *  Thou  shalt  not  suffer 
a  witch  to  live.'  That  was  what  God  thought 
of  magic,  sir,  as  I've  been  brought  up  to 
believe.  And  yet  you're  going  to  have  a 
magic  lantern  in  your  Church  school,  sir  1" 

Paason  explained  that  on  this  particular 
117 


118  DOWNLAND  ECHOES 

occasion  the  "  magic  "  lantern  was  to  be  used 
to  illustrate  a  missionary's  lecture. 

"  Ah,"  she  retorted,  "  Paul  was  a  missionary. 
But  he  wouldn't  have  nought  to  do  wi'  magic. 
He  made  those  wicked  people  at  Ephesus  burn 
their  magical  books.  I'm  afraid  it's  the  devil, 
sir  I" 

But  dancing  she  was  willing  to  allow.  For 
the  simple  reason  that  it  was  scriptural ;  David 
having  danced  before  the  ark  ! 

David's  performance,  according  to  the  Scrip- 
tures and  the  sarcastic  remarks  of  his  wife, 
could  scarcely  have  been  characterised  by  the 
word  "  genteel."  Nor  would  his  taste  have 
been  satisfied  at  a  dance  in  the  schoolroom. 

The  school  was  carefully  prepared  before- 
hand. Desks  with  tops  turned  down  to  make 
seat  backs,  were  arranged  all  round  the  walls, 
one  small  one  being  placed  in  a  little  passage 
as  a  "sitting-out"  resort.  The  classroom 
opening  into  the  big  schoolroom  was  devoted 
partly  to  refreshments,  partly  to  the  orchestra — 
the  village  band.  The  remaining  classroom  was 
set  apart  as  the  ladies'  dressing  room.  These 
things  were  taken  in  hand  by  a  committee  of 
ladies,  who  also  provided  the  refreshments — 
sandwiches,  cakes,  lemonade,  tea,  and  coffee— 
the  latter  made  from  coffee  essence,  and  par- 
ticularly execrable. 


THE  DANCE  119 

The  charge  for  admission,  including  refresh- 
ments, was  one  shilling.  This  prohibitive 
price  ensured  respectability.  The  majority  of 
the  "  bloods,"  even  if  dancing  had  been  in  their 
line,  would  not  have  paid  more  than  sixpence. 
As  it  was,  they  congregated  outside  and 
attempted  to  survey  the  festivities  within  by 
climbing  up  to  the  windows  and  peering 
through  chinks  provided  by  ill-fitting  blinds, 
ever  ready  to  stampede  on  the  approach  of 
their  enemy — Jarvis  the  policeman. 

Of  course  the  farmers  and  their  friends 
attended.  The  men-folk  of  this  group  came 
in  strict  evening  dress,  and  their  ladies  also 
came  with  a  due  regard  to  position.  There 
was  one  lady,  who  with  her  husband — retired 
from  something  or  other — had  settled  in  the 
village,  wore  a  large  pearl  necklace,  was  very 
grand  and  patronising,  and  frequently  spoke, 
with  much  superiority,  of  having  been  accus- 
tomed to  "  moving  in  political  circles  in 
London.  ..."  One  fancied  her  as  a  sort  of 
female  dervish,  spinning  round  on  a  floor 
marked  with  mysterious  symbols  of  "  Tariff 
Reform,"  "  Free  Trade,"  and  "  Home  Rule." 
Anyhow  she  was  supposed,  in  some  way  or 
other,  to  be  cognisant  of  Cabinet  secrets  and 
to  be  an  acquisition. 

Then  there  were  the  real  exponents  of  the 


120  DOWNLAND  ECHOES 

**  genteel."  Very  superior  folks.  They  were 
people  steeped  in  correct  deportment  to  the 
finger-tips,  bearing  themselves  in  a  manner 
that  was  rigidly  proper  in  every  detail. 
One  almost  imagined  that  flirtations  in  the 
solitary  "sitting  out"  passage  concluded,  if 
carried  to  desperate  extremities,  by  the 
request :  "  May  I  imprint  a  kiss  upon  your 
lips  ?"  and  the  very  coquettish  response, 
"  Yes,  Alfred,  I  think  you  may.  Only  one, 
please." 

The  male  sex  of  this  group  were  not  attired 
in  evening  dress — with  very  rare  solitary 
exceptions.  Sometimes  a  frock  coat  was  in 
evidence,  but  generally  it  was  an  ordinary 
black  suit  of  sombre  cut.  Gloves  —  white 
cotton  ones  as  a  rule — were  always  worn, 
dancing  or  not.  Besides  the  few  young 
men  of  this  group  from  the  village  itself,  there 
was  a  sprinkling  from  outside.  No  dance 
was  ever  complete,  for  example,  without 
Arthur  Bidmead,  the  young  draper's  assistant 
from  Hursley.  He  was  a  recognised  authority 
on  every  kind  of  step  ;  he  knew  the  intricacies 
of  every  figure  ;  he  was  the  personification  of 
another  early  Victorian  word — elegance.  Long 
hair,  carefully  brushed,  pince-nez  accurately 
balanced  on  nose,  small  moustache,  diamond 
pin  in  his  white  cravat,  socks  of  the  brightest 


THE  DANCE  121 

hue   showing   beneath    his   trousers — no  one 
could  match  Arthur  Bidmead. 

The  ladies  of  this  particular  group  came 
generally  in  semi- evening  dress.  They  sat, 
bolt  upright,  in  the  classroom  before  the  ball 
opened,  smiling  faintly  and  taking  care  that  it 
should  never  be  said  of  them  that  they  made 
advances.  They  were  polite  and  proper,  as 
befitted  the  solemnity  of  the  function. 

Lastly,  there  came  a  little  sprinkling  of 
pure  agriculturists.  Two  or  three  young  men 
in  ill-fitting,  but  very  tidy,  dark  suits,  faces 
shining  with  soap-rubbing,  hair  carefully  oiled, 
awkward  of  gait  and  manner,  rarely  speaking 
except  to  each  other,  shy  of  asking  any  girl  to 
dance  until  things  were  in  full  swing,  very 
stolid  and  well-behaved.  Also  a  few  village 
maidens,  not  in  "  evening  dress,"  but  with 
touches  of  bright  finery  about  them,  giggling 
under  their  breath  in  a  corner  by  them- 
selves— bashful  but,  in  their  freshness,  allur- 
ing.^ 

The  band  was  as  solemn  as  the  rest.  With 
knitted  brows  they  gazed  fiercely  at  their 
music  and  blew  their  instruments.  A  drum 
was  really  not  needed,  but  the  drummer 
always  came,  considering  himself  indispen- 
sable. 

The  groups  kept  themselves  strictly  divided 


122  DOWNLAND  ECHOES 

all  the  evening.  Young  farmers  danced  with 
farmers'  daughters — or  others  of  their  set. 
Arthur  Bidmead  and  his  kind  spun  round 
with  maidens  of  their  own  kind.  The  agricul- 
turists paired  together.  They  never  mixed. 
Even  with  square  dances  it  was  the  same.  The 
farmer  group  had  their  set  of  lancers,  the 
others  theirs.  There  was  no  social  equality 
in  the  village  dance. 

Dancing  was  absolutely  correct.  "  Kitchen 
lancers"  would  have  been  abhorred  as  dis- 
gusting. They  knew  the  figures  accur- 
ately and  went  through  them  with  extreme 
decorum. 

Nor,  especially  among  the  "  Bidmead"  group, 
was  conversation  permitted  for  a  single  moment 
while  actually  dancing.  They  were  much  too 
intent  on  time  and  figure.  Paason's  wife  once 
took  a  friend  who  was  staying  at  the  Vicarage 
to  a  dance.  But  she  disgraced  herself  and 
received  a  severe  snub.  The  great  Arthur 
Bidmead  asked  her  to  waltz  with  him,  and 
as  they  glided  into  the  room  she  had  the 
temerity  and  bad  sense  to  talk !  She  said 
to  him, 

"  It's  been  a  lovely  day,  hasn't  it  ?" 

To  which  he  replied  sternly, 

"  Sshh  ! — one,  two,  three — one  two,  three 
— one,  two,  three  !" 


THE  DANCE  123 

She  was  properly  silent  for  the  rest  of  the 
waltz — no,  they  always  said  "  valse  " — while 
he  continued  counting  out  loud  at  intervals. 
For  it  was  quite  correct  to  count.  You  heard 
subdued  murmurs  of  "  one,  two,  three  "  from 
all  parts  of  the  room.  Otherwise  there  was 
strict  silence  as  far  as  the  human  voice  was 
concerned. 

The  interval  for  refreshments  was  also 
conducted  with  due  decorum — and  separate 
groups.  Sundry  bandsmen  took  the  oppor- 
tunity for  a  retreat,  but  were  sure  to  be  back 
a  few  minutes  after  ten.  Ten  o'clock  was  the 
closing  hour  of  the  Blue  Lion.  And  the 
music  after  the  interval  was  generally  a  little 
bit  more  spirited — especially  with  regards  to 
the  drum.  But  the  rest  of  the  company  were 
as  "  genteel "  as  ever,  perhaps  with  a  little 
less  reserve. 

They  generally  concluded  with  "  Sir  Roger 
de  Coverley "  just  about  midnight,  superior 
persons  quite  refusing  to  take  part  in  anything 
so  old-fashioned,  but  indulgently  watching  the 
grave  and  somewhat  funereal  procession  of  the 
others  when  the  "  march  round  "  took  place. 

They  parted,  still  "  genteelly,"  after  having 
apparently  thoroughly  enjoyed  themselves. 
Arthur  Bidmead  and  his  male  companions 
from  a  distance  produced  cigarettes  from 


DOWNLAND  ECHOES 

nickel  cases,  lighted  them,  and  departed  on 
bicycles.  A  waggonette  or  two  took  other 
distant  guests.  Shawls  were  thrown  over 
heads,  great-coats  struggled  into  by  the  others, 
and  they  walked  home  quietly  through  the 
deserted  village  in  the  moonlight,  some,  after 
the  manner  of  eternal  nature,  sorting  them- 
selves into  couples  and  preferring  to  separate 
from  the  rest. 

But,  alas !  sometimes  you  could  just  hear  the 
voice  of  some  very  demure  damsel,  who  formed 
half  of  one  of  the  couples,  giggling  as  the 
shadow  of  a  tree  fell  across  them,  and  saying, 
"  Don't,  Jack !" 

Followed,  all  the  same,  if  the  ear  were  quick 
enough  to  catch  it,  by  the  sound  you  would 
expect  after  such  a  familiar  protest. 


PREJUDICES 


XI 
PREJUDICES 

THEY  showed  their  "  orkardness "  by  strange 
prejudices.  And  there  were  no  arguments 
that  could  ever  convince  them  when  once  they 
had  a  prejudice.  This  "  orkardness "  often 
came  out  in  matters  ecclesiastical,  as  Paason 
sometimes  found  to  his  amusement  rather  than 
to  his  cost.  Once  he  had  a  friend  staying  with 
him  for  a  week-end,  a  layman  who  offered  to 
read  the  Lessons  for  him  on  Sunday,  and  did  so. 
Next  morning  Paiison  found  a  paper  fixed 
by  tintacks  to  the  church  door.  The  writing 
on  it  was  in  a  rough  printing  hand,  large  letter- 
ing, and  questionable  spelling.  And  it  read 
thus  : 

"  A  SOCIEL  DISGRACE. 

"  Parsons  work  one  day  a  week  other  peeple 
work  six.  Why  should  the  other  peeple  assist 
the  parson  on  his  one  day  ?" 

Old  William  Briggs  had  decided  objections 
to  what  he  was  pleased  to  call  "  High  Church. " 
The  expression  is  used  advisedly,  for  in  the 

127 


128  DOWNLAND  ECHOES 

mysterious  workings  of  his  brain  things  "  High 
Church  "  were  wont  to  be  extraordinary  and 
not  within  the  category  of  Kensitites.  They 
were  putting  a  new  flagstaff  on  the  church 
tower  one  day,  the  old  one  having  rotted  with 
force  of  weather.  Old  William  came  through 
the  churchyard  as  a  little  group  were  standing 
there  gazing  upwards.  One  of  them  said 
to  him : 

"  That's  a  fine  new  flagpost  they  be  puttin' 
up,  en't  un,  Muster  Briggs  ?" 

To  which  he  replied  scathingly : 

"  I  don't  hold  with  it.  I  be  Low  Church  !" 
and  passed  on  without  a  glance  at  the  ob- 
noxious emblem. 

At  the  eastern  end  of  the  south  aisle  was  the 
beautiful  Lady  Chapel,  always  called  by  the 
villagers  the  "Ladies'  Chapel."  Somehow 
they  seemed  to  take  it  for  granted  that  it  was 
specially  reserved  for  the  fair  sex.  Mrs.  Love- 
joy  was  exceedingly  indignant  on  the  occasion 
of  a  harvest  festival  when,  the  body  of  the 
church  being  crowded,  a  dozen  men  who  came 
in  rather  late  were  shown  into  the  chapel  by 
the  churchwarden. 

"  I  never  heered  o'  such  a  thing,"  she  said, 
"  as  puttin'  all  they  men  in  the  Ladies'  Chapel. 
Simmed  quite  wrong." 

But  William  Briggs  knew  that  chapel  by  its 


PREJUDICES  129 

rightful  and  singular  title,  and  nothing  would 
ever  make  him  go  near  the  south  aisle  where 
he  could  see  it.  He  waxed  particularly 
wrathful  when  Paason's  wife  asked  Mrs. 
Briggs  to  decorate  the  Lady  Chapel  one 
Christmas. 

"  I  shan't  allow  her  to  do  it,"  he  said  de- 
cidedly. "  My  family  ain't  goin'  to  have  nought 
to  do  with  the  Lady  Chapel.  It's  a  bit  o' 
popery,  and  I  don't  hold  wi'  it." 

It  was  old  Farmer  Gringer,  who  also  had 
peculiar  ideas  of  popery  and  ritualism.  A 
strange  preacher,  a  friend  of  Paason's,  came  to 
occupy  the  pulpit  at  a  Lenten  service.  For 
the  sake  of  convenience  he  brought  with  him 
what  is  termed  by'  ecclesiastical  outfitters  a 
"  pocket  surplice,"  being  a  robe  made  of  an  ex- 
ceedingly flimsy  material  that  can  easily  be 
folded  up  and  put  into  a  coat  pocket.  Next 
day  Paiison  met  old  Samuel  Gringer  and  asked 
him  how  he  liked  the  preacher  of  the  previous 
evening. 

"  Not  at  all,"  said  the  old  man  bluntly. 

"Oh,  but  why?" 

"  Because  he  was  High  Church." 

Paason  was  bewildered.  His  friend  had 
preached  the  simplest  of  sermons  and  had  done 
absolutely  nothing,  by  word  or  gesture,  to 
deserve  being  put  into  the  farmer's  category. 

9 


130  DOWNLAND  ECHOES 

"  Whatever  makes  you  say  he  was  "  High 
Church  ?"  he  asked,  out  of  sheer  curiosity. 

"  'Twas  his  surplice,"  replied  Samuel  Gringer. 

"  His  surplice  ?" 

"  Ah  1  'Twas  so  thin  you  could  almost  see 
through  it.  I  didn't  like  it  at  all.  1  never  did 
like  anything  High  Church." 

Nor  would  he  be  convinced  to  the  contrary. 
But  then  it  was  almost  impossible  to  convince 
Samuel  Gringer  to  the  contrary  once  he  had 
made  up  his  mind.  When  Paason  first  came 
to  the  village  he  found  a  recently  established 
custom  prevailing  in  the  winter  months.  The 
north  and  south  doors  of  the  church  were 
exactly  opposite  each  other,  and  if  both  were 
open  when  the  wind  blew  from  the  north  or 
south  the  church  grew  cold  in  a  very  few 
minutes.  Therefore  it  had  been  decreed  that 
during  the  winter  the  south  door  should  be 
permanently  closed. 

But,  all  his  life,  Samuel  Gringer  had  entered 
the  church  by  that  particular  door  and  never 
by  the  north.  It  is  doubtful  whether,  could 
wild  horses  have  been  procurable,  they  would 
have  been  able  to  drag  old  Farmer  Gringer 
through  the  northern  entrance.  As  soon  as 
the  south  door  was  closed  for  the  winter  he 
stopped  going  to  church.  You  might  din 
arguments  into  his  ears  by  the  hour.  He  took 


PREJUDICES  131 

them  quite  good-naturedly  and  placidly,  invari- 
ably, however,  maintaining  his  ground  at  the 
end  of  them. 

"  I  always  have  gone  into  the  church  by  the 
south  door,  and  I  always  shall.  I  never  went 
in  by  the  north  door,  and  I  never  will." 

That  was  all,  except  that  he  turned  the 
conversation  immediately  by  referring  to  the 
price  of  pigs  at  Derringford  market  the  pre- 
vious Friday,  or  the  probable  rise  or  fall  of 
wheat  at  next  week's  market.  After  the  first 
winter  of  this  sort  of  thing  Paiison  caused  the 
south  door  to  remain  as  a  means  of  entrance 
and  egress — and  Samuel  Gringer  came  regu- 
larly every  Sunday. 

Whether  the  origin  of  his  obstinacy  had 
anything  to  do  with  the  old  superstition  that, 
in  some  way  or  other,  the  north  door  of  the 
church  was  connected  with  the  powers  of  dark- 
ness, it  is  impossible  to  say.  But  there  were 
folks  about  who  hinted  darkly  of  an  ancient 
custom  of  having  the  north  door  open  during 
a  baptism  in  order  that  the  Devil,  when  leaving 
the  child,  might  find  his  lawful  way  out.  And 
there  was  a  prejudice  against  being  buried  at 
the  north  side  of  the  churchyard. 

In  a  neighbouring  village  they  added  a  new 
north  aisle  to  the  church.  In  excavating  the 
site,  it  was  found  from  the  remains  of  skeletons 


DOWNLAND  ECHOES 

that  all  the  bodies  on  that  side  of  the  church  had 
been  buried  in  the  reverse  position — namely, 
with  the  feet  towards  the  west.  Possibly  they 
had  been  suicides. 

They  described  the  prejudices  of  others  by  the 
good  old  name  of  "orkardness."  Not  entirely 
disparagingly.  There  was  something  to  be 
admired  in  the  character  of  a  man  who  had  a 
reputation  for  "  orkardness."  It  was  somewhat 
of  a  sterling  quality.  It  meant  that  he  would 
stick  to  his  opinion  even  if  that  opinion  were  a 
wrong  one,  and  that  the  virtue  of  sticking  to 
it  counterbalanced  the  vice  of  its  untruth  or 
absurdness. 

"  Ah,  when  once  Muster  Wood  hev  got  a 
notion  in  his  head  'ten't  like  un  to  give  in  to 
ara  one.  'A  be  a  tur'ble  orkard  man — saiime 
as  his  father  was  afore  un." 

And  that  meant  eulogy  and  admiration. 
Orkardness  was  the  art  of  maintaining  your 
own  against  all  other  opinions  or  advice  what- 
soever. The  fool  was  one  who  "  didn't  know 
his  own  mind,"  and  had  to  be  guided  by  others, 
which  was  always  a  sign  of  weakness — except 
when  you  were  the  person  who  gave  the  advice. 
Old  Jonathan  Price,  who  hadn't  entered  the 
church  for  over  forty  years— not  because  he 
had  renounced  Christianity,  but  on  account  of 
losing  his  pew  when  they  reseated  the  fabric 


PREJUDICES  183 

at  the  "  restoration  " — was  rather  a  man  to  be 
pointed  at  with  pride  as  being  consistent  and 
continuous  in  his  "orkardness,"and  to  be  quoted 
in  conjunction  with  the  phrase  "  And  n'ara 
paason  were  ever  able  to  talk  un  out  o'  it  and 
get  un  to  goo  to  church  again,"  with  a  sense 
of  satisfaction  that  the  old  man  was  one  too 
many  for  Paason,  and  the  suggestion  of 
delighted  pride  because  Paason  came  out  of 
it  a  great  deal  lower  in  the  scale  than  did 
Jonathan  Price. 

There  were  prejudices  founded  upon  the 
isolation  of  the  community.  Things  always 
loomed  large  within  the  precincts  of  the  village. 
But  outside  affairs  were  either  very  immaterial 
or  deserved  contempt.  The  point  of  view  was 
very  forcibly  put  to  a  candidate  for  parlia- 
mentary honours  who  was  addressing  a  village 
meeting,  and  waxed  eloquent  on  the  subject  of 
Home  Rule  for  Ireland.  He  was  interrupted 
by  a  sturdy  yokel  at  the  back  of  the  room,  who 
shouted : 

"  We  doan't  want  to  hear  nought  about 
Ireland,  Mister.  We  wants  to  know  what  we 
be  a-goin'  to  git  for  hoein'  turmuts  !" 

Paason  came  back  from  a  seaside  holiday 
and  met  old  Amos  Weedon,  aged  well  over 
seventy,  returning  from  work. 

"  Ah,  Amos,"  he  said,  "  you're  a  wonderful 


134  DOWNLAND  ECHOES 

man  for  your  age,  but  1  saw  even  a  more 
wonderful  man  than  you  last  week." 

"  Who  be  he,  then,  sir  ?" 

"  An  old  Sussex  fisherman,  turned  eighty- 
two.  The  day  I  saw  him  he'd  started  fishing 
at  two  in  the  morning  and  didn't  get  home  to 
breakfast  till  eleven  o'clock." 

But  Amos  Weedon  gave  a  snort  of  great 
contempt,  and  replied : 

"  Fisherman !  Ah,  they  doiin't  have  to 
work  hard  loike  we  does  !" 

His  sole  idea  of  a  fisherman  being  that  of  a 
person  who  sat  by  the  side  of  a  stream  with 
a  rod  in  his  hand. 

Prejudices  extended  to  the  next  village.  It 
was  always  a  point  of  honour  to  despise  neigh- 
bours of  the  nearer  communities.  One's  own 
village  was  not  only  the  centre  of  the  universe, 
but  also  the  centre  of  all  that  was  moral  and 
desirable.  Old  Mrs.  Barton,  who  had  lived  in 
Little  Marpleton  all  her  life,  was  wont  to 
boast  that  she  "didn't  know  nought  about 
Fritton,  she  hadn't  never  been  there  and 
didn't  want  to."  Fritton  being  situated 
exactly  one  and  a  half  miles  away.  Amos 
Weedon's  great  crown  of  glory,  which  he  was 
always  exhibiting,  was  the  proud  fact  that  he 
had  never  slept  out  of  the  village  a  single 
night  the  whole  of  his  life,  thereby  implying 


PREJUDICES  135 

that  he  had  kept  himself  free  of  the  obnoxious 
night  air  of  any  other  place. 

Paason  engaged  a  new  gardener,  a  hand- 
some, well-set-up  man,  who  came  from  a 
neighbouring  village.  On  Sunday  afternoons 
in  summer,  what  time  the  "  bloods  "  who  had 
girls  "  walked  out "  in  pride  and,  for  the  most 
part,  in  silence — this  man  spent  the  lazy  hours 
lying  on  his  back  in  Paason's  orchard,  smoking 
his  pipe  on  the  scene  of  his  workday  labours. 
And  the  reason  why  he  spent  his  time  in 
solitude  was  given  by  a  maidservant  unto 
Paason's  wife : 

"  Why  do  he  do  it,  ma'am  ?  Because  he 
can't  get  n'ara  young  'ooman  to  walk  out  wi' 
un.  'Ten't  likely  he  could,  him  bein'  a 
straanger."  Then,  with  a  fine  contempt : 
"  Why,  he  be  a  Camford  man  !" 


A  LITTLE  CHILD'S  FUNERAL 


XII 
A  LITTLE  CHILD'S  FUNERAL 

WILLIAM  BUDD  was  digging  a  grave  in  the 
churchyard  on  a  still,  hot  summer's  evening, 
after  having  been  a  "  hay-maakin'"  all  day. 
William  Budd  was  not  the  sexton,  but  some- 
times acted  as  deputy,  the  sexton  being  the 
village  carpenter,  and  a  busy  man  at  his  trade. 
Everyone  fell  back  on  "  Willum "  for  odd 
jobs.  He  was  a  powerful,  magnificent  worker, 
and  never  dawdled  or  idled.  You  knew  you 
could  trust  him  to  work  when  your  back  was 
turned  as  hard  as  he  would  if  you  were  present. 
Even  harder,  for  he  was  a  communicative  man 
and  loved  a  chat. 

Paason  strolled  from  his  garden  into  the 
churchyard,  and  stood  for  a  minute  or  two 
looking  at  him. 

"  Very  warm,  William,"  he  said. 

William  stood  up,  took  his  right  hand  from 
his  spade,  and  drew  the  back  of  it  across  his 
brow. 

"Warm?  'Tis  reg'lar  hot,  sir.  I  doan't 
reck'lect  many  hotter  daays  than  this  un  be. 

139 


140  DOWNLAND  ECHOES 

Why,  when  I  was  a  walkin'  hoame  from 
hayfield  a  time  back  my  feet  was  in  such 
a  sweat  that  they  was  a  goin'  slosh  in  ma 
boots !" 

"  I  expect  you  found  it  thirsty  work — hay- 
making ?" 

William  rested  on  his  spade  and  looked  at 
Paason,  a  twinkle  in  his  eye.  He  knew 
exactly  what  Paason  meant. 

"  Ah,"  he  assented,  "  sort  o'  weather  when  a 
gallon  doan't  sim  to  go  fur,  sir." 

And  his  face  lighted  up  with  a  broad  grin. 

"  You'd  hardly  call  that  moderation,  would 
you,  William  ?" 

"  Oh,  I  dunno  'bout  that,  sir,"  replied 
William,  nothing  abashed.  "  Ye  see,  this 
sort  o'  weather  you  be  so  hot  inside  that 
anything  you  drinks  sims  to  dry  up  afore  its 
finished  a-goin'  down  your  throat.  Let  them 
as  preaches  total  abstinence  try  fillin'  a  hay- 
waggon  on  a  daay  like  this." 

"  I  wasn't  preaching  total  abstinence,"  said 
Paason  mildly  ;  "  I'm  a  believer  in  moderation, 
you  know." 

"  Ah,  you're  right,  sir,"  assented  William 
joyfully.  "  Same  here.  I  often  says  to  some 
on  'em,  '  You  ain't  got  no  sense,'  I  says,  *  a 
drinkin'  like  you  does,'  I  says.  A  man 
oughter  be  content  wi'  a  gallon  a  day,  I 


A  LITTLE  CHILD'S  FUNERAL          141 

reckon  —  or 'nary  daays.  Hay-maakin'  and 
harvest  time,  'tis  different." 

Paiison,  mentally  reckoning  that  a  gallon 
meant  sixteen  glasses  of  beer,  hardly  con- 
sidered this  a  particularly  strong  argument  for 
moderation.  William  dug  away  in  silence  for 
a  few  minutes,  standing  in  the  tiny  grave  to 
do  so.  Then  he  swung  himself  out  of  it  and 
contemplated  his  handiwork. 

"  *  Tool  do,  I  thinks,  sir.  'Tis  only  a  little 
un,  worse  luck.  Somehow,  sir,  I  can't  a-bear 
a  diggin'  a  little  grave — 'tis  allus  a  casalty 
job!"' 

And,  turning  his  head,  his  gaze  fell  on  a 
a  small,  turfy  mound,  a  few  yards  away. 
Paason  understood. 

"  'Tis  not  fur  we  to  saay,  I  s'pose,"  he  went 
on  meditatively,  "  but  it  sims  a  pity  when 
they  be  took  so  young.  I  wunner  whether 
they  grows  up — yonder,"  he  added  thought- 
fully. 

"  I  feel  quite  sure  they  do,"  replied  Paason. 

"  This  here  child — what  you  be  a  berryin' 
to-morrow,  sir.  A  rare  bright  little  un,  she 
were  1  There  was  only  two  on  'em.  Bert 
Stapley  doan't  saay  much,  but  'a  feels  it — / 
knows.  Well,  I'd  best  be  gettin'  on,  I 
reckon." 

And,  as  if  ashamed  of  himself  for   being 


142  DOWNLAND  ECHOES 

sentimental  he  cracked  a  joke  with  Paason, 
covered  up  the  little  grave  with  a  sheet  of 
corrugated  iron,  and  walked  off,  spade  under 
arm. 

The  following  afternoon  the  funeral  took 
place.  The  sexton,  in  Sunday  black,  scattered 
fresh  elm  boughs  on  the  bottom  of  the  grave. 

"  There  was  a  drop  or  two  o'  water  in  un, 
and  folks  doan't  like  to  see  that,"  he  explained, 
"  besides,"  he  went  on,  "  looks  kind  o'  nice,  I 
think — specially  fur  a  little  un." 

He  walked  side  by  side  with  Paason,  the 
latter  white-robed,  to  the  entrance  of  the 
churchyard,  where  the  path  led  to  the  open 
Play  Close.  They  waited  there  together. 

"  Here  they  come,  sir." 

Paason  looked  towards  the  Play  Close. 
In  the  bright  sunshine  of  the  glorious  summer 
afternoon,  across  the  sward  where  so  lately 
she  had  run  laughing  with  the  others,  they 
carried  the  child.  The  little  coffin  was  borne, 
according  to  the  immemorial  custom  of  the 
Downland  when  a  child  dies,  by  her  fellow- 
playmates.  Four  little  girls,  dressed  in  pure 
white,  were  the  bearers — two  on  either  side — 
firmly  grasping  the  clean,  white  towels  on 
which  the  coffin  was  slung ;  four  children,  with 
sad  faces  and  a  suspicion  of  red  eyes  as  they 
came  nearer. 


A  LITTLE  CHILD'S  FUNERAL          143 

Bert  Stapley  followed,  with  set,  stolid  face, 
gazing  straight  in  front  of  him,  his  wife 
clinging  to  his  arm  with  one  hand  and  leading 
the  child  that  was  left  to  them  with  the  other 
— a  little  sprinkling  of  relatives,  and,  of  course, 
old  Mrs.  Lovejoy,  the  village  "  nurse "  in 
best — if  ancient — silk  dress  and  black  bonnet 
carrying  a  very  large  prayer-book:  very 
respectable,  very  self-conscious,  and,  apart 
from  the  dignity  of  her  office,  very  sympathetic. 
The  bell  stopped  tolling  and  the  little  "  ting 
tang  "  began  to  ring.  Paason  led  the  simple 
procession  through  the  churchyard  into  the 
church.  Quietly  the  children  deposited  their 
sad  burden  on  two  low  trestles  at  the  entrance 
of  the  chancel.  The  mourners  took  their 
places,  Mrs.  Lovejoy  sitting  in  her  accustomed 
seat  well  at  the  back :  children — it  was 
Saturday  afternoon — crept  into  the  church, 
huddling  in  groups  by  the  door,  to  pay  their 
tribute  of  affection. 

All  was  so  hushed  and  quiet  and  strangely 
beautiful. 

Out  into  the  sunshine  they  came  once  more, 
down  the  path,  over  the  grass  to  the  little 
grave.  .  .  . 

Paason  closed  his  book.     There  was  silence. 

Bert  Stapley  led  his  wife  forward — one  last 
look  at  the  white-covered  coffin — a  handful  of 


144  DOWNLAND  ECHOES 

fresh  flowers  dropped — a  stifled  sob.  And 
they  slowly  departed.  Children  gathered 
round  the  open  grave  ;  the  sexton  took  up  his 
shovel ;  the  four  bearers  gave  up  their  towels 
to  Mrs.  Lovejoy — to  whom  they  belonged — 
and  went  away  sadly  in  couples,  hand  in 
hand. 

Mrs.  Lovejoy  walked  by  the  side  of  Paason 
as  he  returned  to  the  church,  folding  up  the 
towels. 

"  I  helped  bring  her  into  the  world,"  she 
was  saying,  "  and  1  laid  her  out !  I  done  my 
dooty  by  her — poor  mite.  Ah,  well  1  Tis  t' 
be  hoped  we  shan't  want  these  here  things  fur 
many  a  long  daay,  sir." 

The  bell  sounded,  according  to  custom. 
They  always  tolled  the  bell,  quickly,  directly 
the  funeral  was  over.  Paason  made  the  entry 
in  the  Register  of  Burials,  adding  one  more 
sad  record  to  the  annals  of  the  simple  sur- 
roundings amid  which  they  lived  and  died. 

"  Violet,  daughter  of  Herbert  and  Mary 
Stapley,  aged  6  years,  buried  July  3rd,  19 — ." 

And  put  the  book  back  in  the  chest  among 
the  older  volumes — the  long-forgotten  names, 
the  Register  of  Births,  Marriages  and  Deaths 
dating  from  1588,  the  brief  memories  of  joys 
and  sorrows,  of  life  and  death,  the  same  in 
every  age. 


THE  BISHOPS  VISIT 


10 


XIII 
THE  BISHOP'S  VISIT 

EPISCOPAL  visits  were  few  and  far  between. 
The  Bishop  bore  sway  over  a  huge  diocese,  for 
the  most  part  composed  of  rural  parishes,  and 
though  he  had  it  in  his  heart  to  know  them 
all  personally,  it  was  not  possible  to  get  to 
them  all. 

The  Bishop  was  a  courteous,  kindly  man, 
much  loved  by  all  who  came  in  contact  with 
him — a  man  who  was  surely  working  himself 
to  death  under  the  great  burden  he  had  under- 
taken. Conscientious  in  the  extreme. 

Consulting  his  diary  a  little  wearily  he  found 
a  vacant  date  somewhere  in  the  future,  and 
promised  Paason  to  pay  a  visit  to  the  Down- 
land  village.  He  would  come,  he  said,  and 
preach  on  a  Sunday  evening  —  quite  in- 
formally. 

They  expressed,  in  the  village,  a  good  deal 
of  satisfaction  at  his  coming — the  satisfaction  of 
people  who  considered  themselves  worthy  of 
the  visit.  For  they  were  independent.  The 
village  had  never  known  what  it  was  to  have  a 

147 


148  DOWNLAND  ECHOES 

"  Squire,"  and  they  had  never  learned  to  cringe 
to  anybody.  Had  the  King  or  the  Archbishop 
of  Canterbury  announced  their  intention  of 
paying  a  visit  to  them  they  would  have  been 
intensely  pleased,  but  would  scarcely  have  con- 
sidered it  more  than  their  due.  There  was  a 
dignity  about  this  independence  of  theirs  that 
one  could  hardly  put  down  to  a  false  pride. 
Perhaps  their  isolation  from  the  great  world 
made  them  in  a  way  unconsciously  of  the 
opinion  that  they  were  the  centre  of  the  great 
world. 

Not  that  they  were  prepared  to  treat  his 
visit  lightly.  They  were  possessed  of  a  courtesy 
that  was  partly  based  on  natural  politeness  and 
partly  on  their  own  pride. 

Thus,  when  Schoolmaster,  who  played  the 
organ  in  church,  and  trained  the  choir  with 
genuine  and  marvellous  ability — from  pure 
love  and  from  no  mercenary  motive,  for  he 
gave  his  services  freely — when  Schoolmaster 
distributed  copies  of  an  anthem  to  the  choir  for 
rehearsal,  and  remarked  that  they  must  get  it 
up  in  time  for  the  episcopal  visit,  the  choir 
acquiesced  readily,  looking  upon  the  production 
thereof  not  merely  as  a  musical  tribute  in 
honour  of  the  Bishop,  but  also  tacitly  holding 
that  they  were  competent  to  sing  any  anthem 
ever  composed,  and  that  it  was  the  Bishop's 


THE  BISHOFS  VISIT  149 

pleasurable  duty  to  feel  assured  of  this  fact  by 
what  he  would  hear  of  them. 

Once,  William  Budd,  who  sang  stentorian 
bass  in  the  choir,  was  met  and  recognised  by  a 
lady,  who  had  stayed  in  the  village  some  time 
previously,  in  a  town  in  the  next  county,  where, 
man-of-all-work  as  he  was,  he  had  under- 
taken a  temporary  job  during  a  slack  season 
at  home.  He  was  at  work  just  outside  the 
church,  which  was  a  glorious  and  famous  one. 

She  stopped  and  chatted  with  him,  asking 
him  presently: 

"  Have  you  been  inside  this  church,  Budd  ?" 

Can't  say  as  I  hev,  miss,"  he  replied,  in  the 
tone  of  voice  of  a  man  not  at  all  interested. 

"  It's  very  beautiful.  You  ought  to  go  to 
the  service  on  Sunday.  As  a  choirman  you'd 
enjoy  it.  It's  celebrated  for  its  music  far  and 
wide." 

William  Budd  looked  at  her  with  pity  rather 
than  with  scorn. 

"  T'ood  be  a  job  to  beat  our  singin'  at  Little 
Marpleton,  I  reckon,  miss.  Was  you  there 
when  the  Bishop  come  ?  The  daily  as  we  sung 
that  long  anthem  up  at  the  church  ?" 

After  this  she  dropped  the  subject,  feeling 
that  in  William  Budd's  estimation  there  was 
no  choir  in  England  that  could  compete  with 
his  own. 


150  DOWNLAND  ECHOES 

On  the  day  of  the  episcopal  visit  further 
preparations  were  made.  The  Bishop  was 
expected  to  arrive  in  the  late  afternoon — in 
time  for  tea.  Jim  Stacey,  the  parish  clerk, 
mounted  to  the  top  of  the  tower  and  hoisted 
the  flag,  surveying  his  handiwork  with  satis- 
faction. The  ringers  congregated  in  the 
churchyard,  and  then  slowly  proceeded  to 
climb  the  winding  stairs  to  the  ringing 
chamber,  one  of  their  number  mounting  on  to 
the  roof  of  the  tower  to  keep  watch  on  the 
narrow  strip  of  white  road  outside  the  village, 
to  mark  the  first  appearance  of  the  episcopal 
vehicle.  It  was  meet  and  right  and  according 
to  ancient  custom  that  His  Lordship's  entry 
should  be  greeted  with  the  music  of  the  bells. 

Suddenly  they  began.  The  carriage  had 
been  sighted.  Clear  and  resonant  rang  their 
mellow  voices  over  the  Downland.  Paason 
strolled  down  to  the  Vicarage  gate  in 
readiness. 

But  when  the  carriage  drove  up  it  was 
empty — except  for  the  episcopal  robe  and  suit 
cases.  The  coachman  explained.  The  Bishop 
wanted  a  little  exercise  and  had  got  out  a  mile 
or  so  from  the  village,  intending  to  walk  the 
rest  of  the  way.  Paason  sent  a  message  to  the 
tower  for  them  to  go  on  ringing,  and  then 
started  out  to  meet  His  Lordship. 


THE  BISHOP'S  VISIT  151 

The  Bishop's  entry  into  the  village  was 
characteristic  of  his  simplicity  and  a  certain 
boyishness  which  sometimes  showed  itself. 
He  came,  surrounded  by  a  number  of  children 
with  whom  he  had  already  made  friends,  a 
snapshot  camera  in  his  hand,  pausing  every 
now  and  again  to  take  a  photograph  of  some 
particularly  picturesque  bit  of  the  village. 
Such  was  his  triumphant  progress ! 

On  the  Vicarage  lawn  the  tea-table  was  laid. 
Around  it  were  the  officials  of  the  church,  the 
two  churchwardens  and  the  sidesmen.  They 
were  a  little  ill  at  ease  as  they  greeted  the 
great  man,  but  he  soon  put  them  all  right. 
With  his  peculiar  grace  of  manner  and  fine 
knowledge  of  those  with  whom  he  had  to  deal 
he  at  once  plunged  into  agricultural  topics  as 
if  they  were  his  special  study,  loosening  their 
tongues  to  talk  of  market  prices  and  prospects 
of  hay  and  corn  harvests. 

Tea  over,  it  was  nearly  church  time.  He 
insisted  upon  taking  a  snapshot  of  Paason  and 
the  church  officials,  and  maintained  that  the 
proper  background  was  the  church  itself.  So 
they  went  over  to  the  south  porch  and  he 
arranged  them  there.  People  were  flocking 
into  church.  He  waved  them  back  till  he  had 
taken  his  photograph. 

They  stood,  watching,  with  respect  for  the 


152  DOWNLAND  ECHOES 

person  of  the  Bishop  mingled  with  some 
consternation  for  his  actions.  Mrs.  Lovejoy 
eyed  him  in  silence  as  he  gave  directions  to 
the  little  group  in  the  porch,  and  stepped  back 
to  look  for  them  in  his  view-finder. 

"  Ah,"  she  said  afterwards,  "  I  liked  his 
sermon  well  enough,  but  fancy  him  a-taakin' 
picturs  o  *  Muster  Wood  and  Muster  Gringer 
on  a  Sundaay  !  Him  bein'  a  Bishop,  too !" 

She,  like  the  rest  of  the  congregation, 
doubtless  liked  his  sermon  because  it  was 
simple  and  earnest.  They  could  all  under- 
stand it.  The  Bishop  was  very  human. 

After  the  service  he  strolled  through  the 
village  and  up  "  lydds "  to  the  open  Downs 
above.  He  stood  looking  over  the  great 
expanse  of  a  bit  of  his  big  diocese.  He  could 
see  the  villages  below  and  mark  the  towers  of 
several  churches  standing  out  white  against 
the  trees.  Perhaps  some  sense  of  the  loneli- 
ness and  isolation  of  those  villages  and  of  those 
who  worked  therein  under  his  jurisdiction 
came  upon  him,  for  he  was  very  silent. 

The  next  morning  was  Empire  Day. 
Schoolmaster  had  arranged  a  little  surprise. 
In  the  midst  of  breakfast  the  school  children 
came  on  the  lawn,  some  of  the  bigger  ones  in 
fancy  dress,  and,  grouped  under  the  Union 
Jack,  sang  their  patriotic  songs.  The  Bishop's 


THE  BISHOPS  VISIT  153 

boyishness  came  upon  him.  Seizing  his 
camera  he  opened  the  window,  jumped  out, 
and  snapshotted  them.  One  of  the  girls, 
blushing  and  smiling,  came  forward  with  a 
huge  bouquet  and  he  received  it  gracefully. 

"  Thank  you  so  much,  dear  children,"  he 
said  ;  "  this  is  perfectly  delightful  of  you.  I'm 
going  straight  up  to  London  presently  and  I 
shall  see  the  King  to-day.  If  I  get  an  oppor- 
tunity I  shall  tell  him  about  this  very  pretty 
scene — which  I  shan't  forget !" 

They  smiled  with  pride.  But,  very  likely, 
agreed  with  their  elders  that  it  was  only  right 
that  the  King  should  be  acquainted  with  the 
loyalty  of  his  liege  subjects  of  this  no  insigni- 
ficant portion  of  his  Empire. 

So  the  Bishop  left,  bouquet  in  hand.  It 
was  the  last  time  he  visited  the  village.  His 
labours  led  him,  not  long  afterwards,  to  pay  a 
visit  to  that  bourne  from  which,  so  Shake- 
speare tells  us,  no  traveller  returns. 


MICHAELMAS  HIRING 


XIV 


THEY  kept  Michaelmas,  apart  from  the 
ecclesiastical  festival  at  the  church,  according 
to  the  old  style — to  wit,  on  the  eleventh  of 
October.  It  was  the  season  of  uprooting  and 
transmigration  so  far  as  the  "farm  servants" 
were  concerned.  There  was  a  notable  differ- 
ence between  the  "farm  servant"  and  the 
ordinary  labourer.  The  latter  was  only 
engaged  by  the  week,  and  his  services  might 
be  dispensed  with  at  any  time  when  work  was 
slack.  The  "  farm  servant,"  on  the  other  hand, 
held  a  yearly  appointment  which  began  and 
ended  at  Michaelmas.  If  he  left  before  his 
year  was  out  he  forfeited  his  "  Michaelmas 
Money."  Moreover,  he  paid  no  rent,  part  of 
his  price  being  a  cottage,  rent  free. 

There  were  various  reasons  why  "  farm 
servants  "  left  their  employment  at  Michaelmas, 
some  of  them  obvious,  some  of  them  wellnigh 
impossible  to  discover,  so  strange  was  their 
peculiar  psychology.  A  man  wanted  to 

157 


158  DOWNLAND  ECHOES 

"  better  himself."  His  cottage  was  not 
weatherproof,  and  the  farmer  refused  to  repair 
it  adequately.  He  had  taken  a  secret  dislike 
to  his  master,  and  wanted  a  change.  Some- 
times it  was  sheer  restlessness,  the  desire  to 
get  away  from  the  village  to  fresh  fields  of 
labour,  often  resulting  in  a  year  or  two  in  his 
return  with  the  remark  that  the  other  place 
or  the  other  master  "worn't  no  good  of — 
'twas  a  casalty  job." 

Men  would  change  their  masters  at  Michael- 
mas for  no  apparent  reason.  Jesse  Finch, 
having  worked  seven  years  in  succession  for 
Farmer  Wood,  bluntly,  and  refusing  to  say 
why,  informed  his  master — who  had  never  a 
fault  to  find  in  him — "  I  en't  a-goin'  to  be  took 
on  by  'ee  this  Michaelmas,  sir,"  and  promptly 
hired  himself  to  Farmer  Gringer  at  a  wage  of 
two  shillings  less  a  week,  a  much  inferior  cot- 
tage, and  a  pound  less  "  Michaelmas  Money  " 
at  the  end  of  the  year.  Nobody  ever  knew  the 
reason  of  it  except  that  it  might  have  been  his 
particular  method  of  asserting  an  independent 
spirit. 

The  actual  transaction  generally  took  place 
at  the  Michaelmas  hiring  fair  in  one  of  the 
Downland  market  towns.  Thither  proceeded 
the  farmers,  driving  in  from  the  villages, 
glancing  critically  over  their  neighbours'  lands 


MICHAELMAS  HIRING  159 

by  the  way,  pockets  well  lined,  and  appetites 
growing  beneath  their  waistcoats,  bargain 
making  in  their  thoughts.  Mine  hosts  of 
the  White  Hart,  the  Red  Lion  and  the 
King's  Head  at  Derringford  were  already 
preparing  for  their  advent  with  sundry  rounds 
of  beef  and  juicy  legs  of  mutton  to  grace  the 
tables  at  the  farmers'  "  ordinary,"  while  perhaps 
the  managers  of  the  banks  turned  up  divers 
ledger  accounts  in  preparation  for  dealing  with 
shrewd  customers  who  might  want  a  "bit  o' 
money  "  out  for  payment  of  rents. 

The  men  to  be  hired  came,  for  the  most 
part,  on  foot,  a  few  selecting  the  slower-going 
carrier's  cart.  Arrived  in  the  town  they  hung 
about  the  market -square,  advertising  their 
particular  talents  by  outward  signs.  Thus,  the 
keen-eyed,  fresh-faced  man  who  wore  a  little 
tuft  of  sheep's  wool  in  his  soft  hat  by  this  pro- 
claimed himself  to  be  a  shepherd.  The  thickset 
fellow,  walking  with  awkward  gait  on  pavement, 
with  a  bit  of  whipcord  knotted  in  the  button- 
hole of  his  Sunday-best  jacket,  was  looking  for 
a  carter's  place,  having,  as  his  badge  bore  witness, 
a  knowledge  of  horses.  While  the  old  fellow, 
trying  to  make  a  brave  show  in  spite  of  his 
years,  with  the  weather-beaten,  lined  face,  had 
pinned  a  tuft  of  hair  from  a  cow's  tail  in  the 
front  of  his  hat  to  show  that  he  was  a  "  fogger," 


160  DOWNLAND  ECHOES 

for  by  that  name  they  called  a  man  who  looked 
after  cattle  in  the  Downland. 

Transactions  never  took  place  hastily,  and 
were  often  founded  on  knowledge  gained  by 
local  gossip.  Thus,  the  "  fogger "  aforesaid, 
seeing  Farmer  Gringer  engaged  in  conversa- 
tion with  two  other  of  his  kind  just  outside 
the  Red  Lion,  crossed  the  street,  waited 
patiently  beside  the  group  till  it  broke  up, 
touched  his  hat,  and  accosted  the  farmer : 

"  Beg  pardon,  sir.  But  I  heered  as  how  you 
were  wantin'  a  fogger." 

Farmer  Gringer  looked  at  him  carefully, 
summing  up  his  years  and  capabilities  pretty 
accurately,  but  would  not  commit  himself. 

"  Who  told  you,  my  man  ?" 

"  Muster  Jenkins,  over  at  Mudford,  sir.  I've 
worked  for  he  this  four  year." 

"  Ah  1  I  dunno  quite  whether  I  want  a 
man.  And  you  ain't  so  young  as  you  was." 

He  did  want  a  "fogger."  But  Farmer  Jenkins 
had  already  told  him  he  was  getting  rid  of  this 
man  because  he  was  always  "  bein'  laid  up  with 
rheumatism." 

So  he  passed  on.  His  keen  eye  had  detected 
a  strong-looking  middle-aged  man  wearing  the 
same  badge.  He  stopped  him  abruptly. 

"  Where  do  you  come  from,  my  man  ?" 

The  other  named  a  distant  village. 


MICHAELMAS  HIRING  161 

"  You  want  to  get  hired  on  ?" 

"  Ah !" 

"  Fourteen  shillings  a  week  and  two  pound 
ten  Michaelmas  money — and  'tis  a  tidy  little 
cottage." 

Thus  he  stated  his  terms. 

The  "  fogger  "  demurred.  He  rather  looked 
for  fifteen  shillings  a  week.  Farmer  Gringer, 
however,  would  make  no  concession,  but  pre- 
sently asked : 

"  Got  any  children  ?" 

"  Ah — a  few,  sir." 

"  How  many  ?" 

The  man  reluctantly  confessed  to  seven. 
That  settled  it.  The  farmer  shook  his  head. 

"  Tis  no  use,  then,"  he  said.  "  We've  got 
about  enough  children  in  the  village  as  'tis. 
And  there  isn't  room  for  your  lot  in  the 
cottage." 

And  he  turned  on  his  heel.  The  old  house- 
ing  problem  and  the  farmer's  often  repeated 
objection  to  large  families  prevented  him  from 
"  hiring  on  "  this  sturdy  son  of  the  soil. 

Meanwhile  Farmer  Wood,  astute  man,  had 
seen  just  the  individual  he  was  looking  for — 
the  shepherd  with  the  tuft  of  wool.  He  knew 
well  that  one  of  his  neighbours  was  leaving 
his  farm,  and  that  this  man  had  been  acting  as 
his  shepherd  these  ten  years. 

11 


162  DOWNLAND  ECHOES 

"  Ah,"  he  asked,  in  his  calm  way,  "  ain't  you 
John  Massey,  my  man  ?" 

"  That  be  my  name,  Muster  Wood." 

"  Anyone  hired  you  yet  ?" 

"  No,  sir — leastways  I  en't  took  a  shillin' 
from  no  one,  but  Muster  Gunning  wants  a 
word  wi'  ma." 

"  I'll  have  one  with  'ee  first,  John.  I'm 
wanting  a  man — with  a  good  character." 

"  My  old  master  'ull  give  me  a  good  word,  I 
reckon,  sir." 

"Ah,  maybe  he  will.  I'd  give  you  fair 
wages — fifteen  shillings,  three  pound  ten  at 
Michaelmas.  P'raps  you  know  our  shepherd's 
house  ?" 

"  Ah,  I  'oodn't  mind  un.  How  'bout 
double  couples.  Muster  Wood  ?" 

"A  shilling.  And  I  keep  a  smaiirt  few 
sheep  for  lambing." 

This  meant  that  the  shepherd,  during  the 
lambing  season,  would  receive  a  shilling  for 
each  pair  of  twins  lambed. 

Farmer  Wood  had  an  interview  with  the 
shepherd's  late  master  —  a  satisfactory  one, 
after  which  he  handed  the  man  a  shilling,  and 
that  sealed  the  contract. 

Quite  as  efficaciously  as  the  recruiting- 
sergeant's  coin  of  the  same  value.  Once  that 
shilling  was  taken  the  shepherd  was  bound  to 


MICHAELMAS  HIRING  163 

the  farmer  for  a  twelvemonth,  to  receive  at 
the  end  of  that  time  a  bonus  of  three  pounds 
ten  in  addition  to  his  weekly  wages — the 
"  Michaelmas  Money." 

"  When  can  you  come,  John  ?" 

"  Any  day,  Muster  Wood." 

"I'll  send  for  'ee  on  Thursday  then.  Will 
one  waggon  be  enough  ?" 

The  man  laughed. 

"  I  reckon  'fool  hold  all  as  we've  got,  sir." 

It  was  the  established  rule  that  the  farmer 
who  hired  a  "servant"  for  the  year  should 
be  responsible  for  moving  him,  his  family 
and  his  belongings  from  the  old  home  to  the 
new. 

John  Massey  put  the  shilling  in  his  pocket, 
took  the  tuft  of  wool  from  his  hat  and  threw 
it  away,  and,  satisfied  with  his  bargain,  for  he 
knew  Farmer  Wood's  reputation,  turned  into 
a  modest  public-house  for  refreshment. 

Farmer  Gringer  secured  a  "  fogger  "  having 
the  advantages  of  comparative  youth  and  only 
two  children.  Groups  began  to  gather  out- 
side the  hotels,  to  disappear  inside,  first  to  the 
private  bar,  emerging  after  preliminary  refresh- 
ment, to  the  "  ordinary."  Discussions  took 
place.  Samples  of  corn  were  handed  round, 
produced  from  capacious  pockets  out  of  little 
string-tied  bags.  There  was  a  mixed  babel 


164  DOWNLAND  ECHOES 

anent  politics,  rates,  wages,  and  the  short- 
comings of  country  paiisons,  and  perhaps  a 
select  few  sought  a  room  in  which  a  game  of 
nap  could  be  had — sometimes  with  stakes  that 
might  have  aroused  the  wearers  of  badges  in 
the  market-place  outside  to  bargain  for  higher 
wages. 

In  the  afternoon  farmers  and  men  began  to 
melt  away — out  into  the  open  country.  The 
old  "fogger"  remained  almost  to  the  last, 
because  no  man  had  hired  him,  and  toiled 
homeward  his  seven  miles,  sad  of  heart  and 
weary  of  limb,  with  the  drear  prospect  of  a 
casual  "  labourer "  before  him,  instead  of  a 
"  hired  servant,"  and  wondering  how  to  break 
it  to  his  fragile  wife,  cheered  only  by  the 
thought  that  if  Providence  permitted  him  to 
live  for  another  eighteen  months  he  would 
qualify  for  that  wonderful  new  boon — the  old 
age  pension. 

"  Please  God  I  can  kip  out  o'  the  union !" 
he  prayed. 

Uprootings  were  very  simple,  for  possessions 
were  few.  It  was  nothing  to  leave  one  village 
for  another.  In  that  respect  John  Massey  was 
better  off  than  his  richer  neighbour,  for  he  had 
to  seek  no  "  estimate  for  removals  by  road  or 
rail." 

Farmer    Wood's    waggon,   drawn    by   two 


MICHAELMAS  HIRING  165 

stalwart  horses  driven  by  Harry  Wade,  the 
farmer's  carter,  drew  up  before  the  shepherd's 
cottage.  John  Massey,  his  wife,  and  Harry 
Wade  brought  out  their  bits  of  furniture  and 
homely  belongings,  piling  them  in  the  waggon 
with  rough  skill.  A  rope  made  all  fast.  Mrs. 
Massey  took  a  last  look  round  to  see  that  they 
had  collected  their  all,  locked  the  door,  gave 
the  key  to  a  neighbour,  mounted  the  waggon, 
and  took  her  seat  on  a  convenient  mattress. 
John  Massey  climbed  on  to  the  tail-board  and 
lit  his  pipe  philosophically.  Harry  Wade 
gathered  up  the  reins  and  cracked  his  whip,  and 
so  they  lumbered  off  on  their  ten  miles'  slow 
journey. 

Thus  came  shepherd  John  Massey  into  his 
new  abode.  Inquisitive  children  gathered 
round  to  see  the  furniture  moved  into  his 
cottage.  An  equally,  if  not  more  so,  in- 
quisitive neighbour  made,  peering  behind  a 
blind  in  her  abode  opposite,  a  mental  list  of 
every  article  and  retailed  it  next  day  to  a 
bosom  friend — with  disparaging  criticisms. 

And,  early  next  morning,  the  newly  hired 
shepherd  took  his  way  "  up  lydds  "  to  his  new 
flock.  Michaelmas  hiring  was  over.  It  may 
have  been  a  little  epoch,  but  it  was  no  very 
great  change  in  his  life.  So  he  saw  the  sun 
rise  over  the  Downland,  taking  in  his  new 


166  DOWNLAND  ECHOES 

surroundings  with  his  keen  eyes — the  lonely 
shepherd — with  just  the  glimmer  of  a  smile  of 
content  on  his  fresh,  wind-burnt  face.  Only  a 
"  hired  servant,"  but  his  fate  might  have  been 
far  worse ! 


THE  VILLAGE  OVER  THE 
DOWNS 


XV 

THE  VILLAGE  OVER  THE  DOWNS 

"  COIN'  up  Wood  Way  "  meant  a  steep  climb 
up  the  side  of  the  Downs.  It  was  only  a  foot- 
path, greasy  after  rain,  going  straight  up  the 
hill.  Towards  the  top  it  struck  the  more 
roundabout  "  White  Shoot,"  a  rough  and 
rugged  road  cut  in  the  chalk.  A  bit  farther 
up  "  White  Shoot "  were  two  or  three  little 
cottages,  nestling  for  shelter  against  a  clump 
of  trees.  A  few  children  from  the  cottages 
attended  school  daily,  and  toiled  up  "Wood 
Way  "  to  their  homes  every  afternoon  in  all 
weathers — poor  mites  !  They  brought  their 
bits  of  dinners  with  them,  of  course,  eating 
them  in  the  schoolroom,  grouped  round  the 
fire  on  wet  winter  days  or  out  in  the  Play 
Close  when  the  sun  shone. 

A  pull  up  above  the  cottages  and  the  top 
of  the  great  open  Downs  was  reached.  Habi- 
tations were  few  and  far  between  here — one 
or  two  solitary  cottages  in  the  far  distance, 
invariably  guarded  by  a  few  straggling  trees 

169 


170  DOWNLAND  ECHOES 

to  keep  off  the  prevailing  south-westerly 
winds.  But,  in  places,  one  lost  sight  even  of 
these  cottages,  and  only  saw  the  vast  stretches 
of  Downland,  partly  cultivated,  partly  pasture, 
a  sense  of  deep,  sad  loneliness  and  solitude 
creeping  over  one.  For  these  Downs  had  a 
strange  melancholy  attached  to  them,  an  abso- 
lutely different  atmosphere  from  that  of  the 
rolling,  sea-girt  country  of  the  south. 

The  chalky  road  ended  abruptly  here,  on 
the  summit,  giving  place  to  a  broad,  grass 
trackway  that  ran  quite  straight  for  a  couple 
of  miles — straight  and,  for  the  most  part, 
level.  Somewhere  away  on  the  left  grew  the 
Pasque  flower,  blossoming,  according  to  its 
name,  about  Eastertide,  bell  -  shaped  and 
purple  of  hue.  They  told  you  that  the 
Pasque  flower  only  grew  on  spots  which  had 
been  drenched  with  Danish  blood  ;  and,  indeed, 
it  may  have  been  true,  for  the  Downs  held 
memories  of  many  a  fight  between  Saxons  and 
invading  North  men.  Perhaps  this  was  one  of 
the  reasons  of  their  melancholy. 

There  was  little  sign  of  life  up  there. 
Sometimes  a  flock  of  sheep,  shepherd  in  front, 
dog  rounding  them  up  behind,  straggled  very 
slowly  across  one  of  the  distant  hills.  A  lark's 
song  might  break  the  great  silence ;  a  hare, 
startled  by  the  unwonted  appearance  of 


humanity,  might  run  swiftly  to  cover ;  that 
was  all.  Life  and  sounds  were  rare. 

After  a  while  the  ground  on  the  left  side  of 
the  track  rose  gradually.  Looking  up,  the 
outline  of  a  Roman  camp  could  be  discerned 
on  the  top  of  a  hill  that  stood  out  from  the 
rest — a  lonely  outpost  of  the  old  days.  Yet 
it  would  seem  they  made  themselves  happy 
at  times — those  Roman  soldiers — for  within 
the  camp  was  a  huge  heap  of  oyster-shell 
debris,  remains  of  convivial  suppers.  Among 
the  oyster-shell  rubbish  Roman  coins  were 
often  found. 

At  the  foot  of  this  hill  the  long,  broad  track 
ended.  On  the  right  slope  was  a  great  fir 
copse,  gloomy  in  the  extreme.  The  sense  of 
solitude  and  melancholy  was  stronger  than 
ever  here.  Sometimes,  if  the  breeze  were 
blowing,  the  branches  rustled  and  the  wind 
came  through  them  in  sad,  fitful  moans. 
Otherwise  the  silence  was  heavy  and  intense. 

A  rough,  uneven  road  curved  round  the 
foot  of  the  great  hill,  falling  and  rising  by 
turns ;  gradually  it  changed  in  character, 
beginning  to  do  so  where  it  crossed  another 
rough  road  that  antiquaries  told  you  had  once 
been  a  great  Roman  highway.  Hedges  sprung 
up  on  either  side,  the  surface  grew  less  uneven, 
the  deep-cut  ruts  disappeared,  a  solitary  cottage 


172  DOWNLAND  ECHOES 

by  the  side  of  the  road  came  into  view,  the 
open,  rolling  downs  were  left  behind. 

The  road  narrowed  and  deepened,  banks 
rose  on  either  side,  crowned  with  thick  hedges. 
All  distant  prospects  vanished  ;  one  felt  a  sense 
of  oppression — of  being  shut  in.  It  was  all 
downhill  now.  Heavy  elm -trees  spread  dark 
branches  over  the  way  ;  there  was  no  freshness 
in  the  air — a  contrast,  for  the  Downs  themselves 
were  always  fresh. 

A  sudden  curve  in  the  road,  and  there  were 
the  first  houses  of  the  village — ugly,  uncom- 
promising-looking houses.  A  woman  stood 
in  the  doorway  of  one  of  them,  shabby,  dull- 
eyed,  slowly  turning  her  head  as  one  passed ; 
staring,  but  with  no  interest.  The  road  divided : 
on  the  left  stood  a  hideous,  squat  chapel, 
labelled  on  a  stone  over  the  door  in  black 
letters,  "Ebenezer  Chapel,  1821."  Just  the 
sort  of  thing  they  would  have  built  a  century 
ago — witness  of  a  stern,  narrow  creed :  an 
angry  God  to  be  propitiated.  Opposite  was 
the  village  school,  equally  unbeautiful.  And 
a  shop — dirty  windows,  behind  which  were 
arrayed  a  few  bottles  of  sickly-looking  sweets, 
a  couple  of  biscuit  tins,  blacking  brushes,  a 
rusty  sieve,  two  rolls  of  faded  material  looking 
as  though  it  might  have  been  chintz  far  back 
in  the  ages. 


THE  VILLAGE  OVER  THE  DOWNS      173 

The  turning  to  the  right  took  one,  between 
great,  dark  holly  hedges,  to  the  church.  The 
lych-gate,  old  timber  roofed  with  tiles,  opened 
into  the  churchyard.  Long,  dank  grass. 
Tombstones  covered  with  grey  and  yellow 
lichen ;  an  old,  very  old,  yew-tree,  the  trunk 
white  with  age,  few  branches  left,  and  some 
of  those  broken  and  withered. 

Inside  the  church  gloom  and  the  emblems 
of  death.  Centuries  ago  a  powerful  family 
had  resided  in  the  place,  and  had  been,  as 
they  died  off,  buried  according  to  custom 
within  the  sacred  edifice — buried  under  great, 
awful  tombs,  on  the  top  of  which  lay  grim, 
recumbent  effigies,  chipped,  broken,  and  muti- 
lated. A  huge  sarcophagus  rather  than  a 
church,  dim  and  mysterious,  the  great  tombs 
predominating,  the  dead  in  possession — some 
of  them,  one  felt  it  strongly,  the  wicked  dead. 

Opposite  the  church,  shut  in  by  thick,  tall 
hedges,  surrounded  by  dank  trees  —  the 
Vicarage.  A  large,  dismal,  ugly-coloured 
house.  The  Vicar  was  a  ripe  scholar — lost  to 
the  great  world  in  that  lonely  outpost. 

There  stood  the  remote  village,  shrouded  by 
trees,  far  from  the  beaten  track,  hidden  even 
from  the  higher  Downland. 

Once,  at  least,  away  back  in  the  ages,  it  woke 
up  one  day.  The  day  that  a  great  Tudor 


174  DOWNLAND  ECHOES 

sovereign  visited  it,  surrounded  with  gaily  be- 
decked courtiers.  That  yew-tree  in  the  church- 
yard was  in  its  pride  and  glory  then,  and  the 
Tudor  monarch  stood  beneath  its  branches  and 
praised  it. 

Away  from  the  gloomy  village,  up  the  road 
between  the  deep  banks,  out  to  the  heights 
once  more,  where  nothing  blotted  out  the  blue 
of  the  sky  and  the  fleecy  whiteness  of  the 
scudding  clouds. 

The  sun  was  setting  over  the  Downland  to- 
wards the  close  of  the  homeward  journey,  the 
trees  on  the  distant  sky-line  black  against  the 
glow.  In  spite  of  the  tinge  of  melancholy  that 
attached  itself  to  the  beauty  of  the  expanse,  it 
was  open  and  fresh  and  free  up  there — a  con- 
trast to  the  dank,  stagnant  village,  where  the 
dead  kept  guard  in  the  church. 

"  Coin'  down  Wood  Way "  one,  somehow, 
got  back  into  a  different  bit  of  God's  world. 
Tom  Horner  was  making  his  way  home  from 
the  Downs  and  one  glanced,  instinctively,  at 
bulging  pockets.  William  Budd  nodded 
pleasantly  from  the  steps  of  the  Blue  Lion  ; 
young  Dick  Webster  came,  red  of  face,  through 
a  gap  in  the  hedge  out  of  an  orchard  where  he 
had  no  business  to  be,  tucking  something  very 
much  like  a  big  apple  out  of  sight  under  his 
jacket ;  the  church  tower  was  wondrously 


THE  VILLAGE  OVER  THE  DOWNS      175 

pink  in  the  afterglow  of  the  sunset,  a  great 
pillar  of  fire  to  show  the  habitation  of  the  liv- 
ing God  ;  and  Ezra  Padge,  who  was  generally 
"  disposed  to  weather,"  passed  "  up  street "  with 
the  cheery  prophecy,  "  'T'ool  be  fine  again  to- 
morrow— that  't'ool !" 

That  was  one  of  the  secrets — unfathomable 
— kept  by  the  rolling  Downs.  The  villages 
scattered  about  them — isolated  from  each  other 
— were  so  utterly  different  in  their  characteris- 
tics and  atmosphere. 


THE  "TOP  O'  THE  WORLD 


12 


XVI 
THE  "  TOP  O'  THE  WORLD  " 

SOMEONE,  of  an  imaginative  turn  of  mind,  had 
called  the  place  the  "Top  o'  the  World." 
The  "Roman  Port  Way,"  the  road  that 
skirted  the  Downs,  suddenly  took  an  upward 
curve,  mounted  a  spur  of  the  Downs  by  a  steep 
ascent,  and  ran  for  some  little  distance  over  a 
high  bit  of  tableland  commanding  a  widely 
spreading  view.  On  this  tableland,  beside  the 
road,  stood  a  solitary  habitation.  And  this, 
because  of  its  position  and  outlook,  was  the 
"  Top  o'  the  World." 

The  house  was  just  an  old  cottage  with  a  bit 
of  a  barn  beside  it,  lying  a  little  back  from  the 
road  with  a  small,  well-cared-for  garden  in 
front,  a  garden  that  was  gay  with  the  old-world 
flowers,  clusters  of  sweet-william,  golden  masses 
of  marigolds,  mallows  in  profusion,  and  a  climb- 
ing rose  that  twined  its  brambles  freely  over 
the  rough,  wooden  porch.  Behind  was  an 
orchard,  pink  in  the  spring  with  apple  blossom, 
a  cool,  green  patch  in  summer  cut  out  of  the 
blazing  yellow  corn  that  stretched  on  either 

side. 

179 


180  DOWNLAND  ECHOES 

Two  children  came,  slowly  mounting  the 
road  that  led  from  the  distant  village  to  the 
"  Top  o'  the  World  "—a  boy  and  a  girl.  The 
boy  was  about  eleven  years  of  age,  a  sturdy 
little  chap  with  a  certain  determined  expres- 
sion upon  his  face.  The  girl  might  have  been 
a  year  younger.  She  was  a  merry-looking,  fair- 
haired  child  of  the  Downland  ;  but  the  boy  was 
a  type  not  found  in  those  parts.  At  a  glance 
you  could  see  they  were  not  brother  and  sister. 
They  carried  their  cheap  school  satchels  over 
their  shoulders  ;  it  was  a  hot  summer  afternoon, 
and  they  dawdled  up  the  hill. 

At  the  gate  of  the  cottage  stood  a  woman, 
shading  her  eyes  with  her  hand  as  she  gazed 
down  the  white  road. 

"  You  be  late,"  she  cried,  as  they  came  near ; 
"  doan't  'ee  want  no  tea  ?" 

"It  be  so  hot,  mother,"  said  the  girl,  " we 
couldn't  come  along  fast,  could  us,  Jim  ?" 

"  Ah  I  'Tis  a  bit  fresher  up  here  than  down 
in  th'  village.  I  be  thirsty,  mother." 

The  woman  opened  the  gate,  looking  at  the 
boy  as  she  did  so,  a  curious,  wistful  look,  the 
corners  of  her  mouth  quivering  ever  so  slightly. 

"  Get  you  inside,  boath  of 'ee,"  she  said  ;  "  the 
kettle's  bilin'.  I  wants  ma  tea  badly." 

As  she  cut  their  thick  slices  of  bread  and 
poured  out  their  tea,  she  looked  again  at  the 


THE  "TOP  CT  THE  WORLD"  181 

boy.  He  was  not  her  son.  He  had  come  to 
her  seven  years  before,  an  outcast,  rescued 
from  the  London  streets  by  one  of  our  great 
benevolent  societies  which,  among  other  good 
works,  takes  poor  little  wastrels  such  as  he  and 
boards  them  out  in  God's  country.  He  had 
grown  up  side  by  side  with  her  own  little  girl, 
till  they  had  become  like  brother  and  sister. 
She  remembered  how  he  had  been  brought  to 
her  a  tiny  mite,  pale  of  face,  and  thin  of  body, 
how  almost  his  first  words  had  been  coarse 
oaths  which  he  had  learned  unconsciously  in 
those  terrible  surroundings  from  which  he  had 
been  taken ;  she  remembered  how  she  had 
taught  him  to  call  her  by  a  word  he  had  never 
picked  up — "  mother." 

She  waited  till  the  children  had  finished 
their  tea,  and  then  reached  to  the  mantelshelf 
and  took  down  a  typewrritten  letter. 

"Jim,"  she  said,  with  a  little  gasp  in  her 
voice,  "  I've  had  a  letter  from  the  Home." 

To  Jim's  mind  the  "  Home  "  had  a  certain 
mysterious  significance.  In  some  way  or 
other  he  connected  it  with  the  origin  of  his 
being,  and  knew  that  it  controlled  his  destiny. 
Every  now  and  then  a  lady  inspector  came 
from  the  "  Home,"  weighed  him,  looked  at  his 
teeth,  and  seemed  otherwise  interested  in  his 
welfare. 


182  DOWNLAND  ECHOES 

"  What  is  it,  mother  ?" 

"  You've  got  to  go  to  the  "  Home "  on 
Tuesday,  Jim — and — and — you  en't  to  come 
back  here  no  moare  !" 

"  I  'oo/,"  said  Jim,  in  the  Downland  verna- 
cular, while  the  little  girl  gave  a  long  drawn 
"  O-o-oh !" 

The  woman  shook  her  head. 

"  They're  goin'  to  send  'ee  to  Canada,  Jim." 

Winnie  began  sobbing.  Jim  could  hardly 
control  his  tears.  He  had  expected  this  fate 
one  day  or  other.  Other  children,  boarded 
out  in  the  village  beneath,  from  time  to  time 
left  at  short  notice  to  be  sent  with  a  batch 
from  the  "  Home  "  to  that  far-away  country. 

He  set  his  lips  together  firmly. 

"  Don't  cry,  Winnie,"  he  said,  '  I'm  a-comin' 
back  one  day — en't  I,  mother  ?" 

The  woman  drew  him  to  her  and  kissed  him. 

"  Run  out  in  the  orchard  and  play,  both  o' 
'ee,"  she  said,  a  minute  later. 

And  as  they  went  out,  she  heard  him  say 
again: 

"  Never  mind,  Winnie.  When  I  be  a  man, 
I'll  come  back  and  marry  'ee  !" 

*  *  *  #  * 

Paason,  in  whose  overseership  was  com- 
mitted the  local  care  of  the  boarded-out 
children,  had  been  with  his  wife  up  to  the 


THE  "TOP  O1  THE  WORLD"  183 

"  Top  o'  the  World  "  to  give  final  directions ; 
they  had  inspected  Jim's  outfit  and  the  little 
presents  he  had  received,  including  a  bright 
silk  scarf  on  which  Winnie  had  laboriously 
embroidered  his  name ;  had  given  the  boy  a 
prayer-book — Jim  had  sung  in  the  choir ; 
advanced  the  money  for  his  fare  to  London ; 
told  his  foster-mother  that  they  had  ordered  a 
waggonette  from  the  Blue  Lion  to  take  them 
to  the  station ;  and  finally  given  her  an 
addressed  label  to  tie  to  the  boy's  buttonhole. 

"  I  shall  miss  un  a  smaiirt  lot,  sir,"  said  the 
woman:  "  Jim's  allus  bin  a  good  boy — 'cept 
for  a  bit  o'  mischief,  times.  And  Winnie,  she 
do  taiike  on  at  his  goin',  poor  child.  She 
'oodn't  give  ma  no  peace  till  I  sent  boiith  on 
'em  to  Shepherd  King  to  have  their  picturs 
took  together,  poor  dears." 

Shepherd  King  combined  the  occupation  ot 
his  name  with  the  taking  of  photographs  in 
his  spare  time.  The  woman  pointed  to  the 
photograph  on  the  table  and  told  Paiison  and 
his  wife  Jim  was  taking  a  copy  with  him. 

"  And  he  kips  saayin'  he's  a-comin'  back 
one  day,  sir,  to  marry  she  !" 

They  drove  in  to  the  junction  on  Tuesday. 
Jim  had  his  bag  of  clothing.  His  pockets  were 
stuffed  with  biscuits  and  sweeties  and  packets 
of  sandwiches,  his  label  was  tied  to  his  button- 


184  DOWNLAND  ECHOES 

hole,  displaying  the  fact  that  he  was  to  be  met 
at  the  London  terminus. 

The  train  came  in.  A  word  to  the  kindly 
guard,  and  that  individual  promised  to  see  him 
through  his  journey  ;  he  threw  his  arms  round 
"  mother's "  neck  and  kissed  her,  then  he 
kissed  Winnie,  whose  tears  were  running  down 
her  cheeks,  and  got  into  the  train.  The 
whistle  sounded — the  little  scrap  of  humanity 
was  off  to  the  new  world. 

The  last  words  they  heard  him  say,  his  head 
stretched  out  of  the  window,  the  speed  of  the 
train  gathering,  were : 

"  I'm — a — comin' — back  !" 


Daniel  Hall,  who  acted  as  postman  to  the 
community,  considered  himself  quite  at  liberty 
to  discuss  the  contents  of  his  post-bag. 
According  to  his  code  postcards  were  public 
property. 

"  Here's  a  bit  o'  good  news  for  you,  Mrs. 
Padge.  Your  daughter's  a-comin'  to  pay  'ee  a 
visit,"  he  would  announce,  as  he  handed  the 
card  to  the  addressee. 

"  Good-marnin',  Sally,"  he  would  say  to  an 
old  woman  who  hobbled  to  the  door  at  his 
knock  ;  "  this  here  letter  feels  as  though  there 
was  summat  welcome  in  it." 


THE  "TOP  O1  THE  WORLD11  185 

For  Daniel  Hall  knew  well  that,  twice  a 
year,  she  received  a  little  financial  remembrance 
from  a  lady  who  befriended  her. 

Letters  for  the  "  Top  o'  the  World  "  had 
formerly  been  infrequent.  The  house  was  the 
last  in  Daniel's  beat.  Now  he  toiled  up  to  it 
regularly. 

"  How  that  boy  Jim  do  write !"  he  said. 

This  was  seven  years  after  Jim  had  left  the 
"  Top  o'  the  World." 

Winnie  stood  at  the  gate  of  the  cottage 
watching  Daniel  Hall  toiling  up  the  hill.  A 
slender,  pretty  girl,  her  fair  hair  shining  in  the 
sunlight. 

"  All  right,"  he  exclaimed,  as  he  drew  near. 
"  Tis  a  foreign  stamp  on  it,  Winnie.  And  it 
feels  as  if  there  was  a  picture  inside,  simminly. 
You'll  have  to  get  yours  took  by  Shepherd 
King  again  soon,  I  reckon  !" 

A  blush  mounted  the  girl's  cheek  as  she  took 
the  packet  from  the  postman's  hands  and  went 
inside  the  cottage.  Later  in  the  day  she  went 
down  to  the  village  shop  and  bought  a  gaudy 
frame.  It  stood  on  the  chest  of  drawers  in  her 
room  that  night  with  Jim's  "  picture "  in  it, 
the  photograph  of  a  well-set-up,  stalwart  youth. 
She  read  the  letter  once  again.  It  told  her  he 
was  steadily  making  his  way  in  the  new  world. 
One  sentence  in  it  ran  : 


186  DOWNLAND  ECHOES 

"  I'll  come  back  to  the  old  home  one  of  these 
days." 

Somehow  or  other  she  never  went  "  walkin' 
out "  with  any  of  the  "  bloods."  She  waited. 


Ten  years  after  that  waggonette  had  taken 
the  little  wastrel  into  the  station,  a  well-dressed, 
good-looking  young  man  got  out  of  the  junc- 
tion, shouldered  a  light  travelling  bag,  and 
stepped  out  across  the  fields  towards  the 
Downs.  In  the  village  Schoolmaster  was 
leaning  over  his  gate,  contemplatively  smoking 
a  pipe  after  his  day's  work.  He  looked  up 
on  hearing  himself  accosted.  Slowly  a  look  of 
recognition  stole  across  his  face.  He  never 
forgot  his  old  boys. 

"  Why,  it's  Jim  1"  he  exclaimed,  "  well,  well, 
well  1  Where  have  you  come  from  ?" 

"  Canada." 

"  Come  in  and  have  some  tea,"  said  the 
Schoolmaster,  after  a  few  moments'  conversa- 
tion. 

But  Jim  shook  his  head,  smiled,  and  passed 
on. 

Through  the  village,  out  to  the  white  road, 
up  the  winding  hill  to  the  "  Top  o'  the  World." 
He  paused  by  the  cottage  gate.  Then  he 
opened  it  softly — and  crept  up  the  path  through 


THE  "TOP  O1  THE  WORLD"  187 

the  garden.     The  door  was  ajar.     He  pushed 
it  open. 

"  Winnie !" 

"  Jim  1" 

"I've  come  back,  Winnie !" 

***** 

The  "  Top  o'  the  World "  was  bathed  in 
golden  light  as  the  sun  sank  lower  in  the 
heavens.  It  was  very  still  and  quiet  on  the 
"  Top  o'  the  World."  Perhaps  it  was  a  little 
bit  nearer  heaven  than  anywhere  else  in  the 
Downland.  At  any  rate,  that  is  what  it  seemed 
like  to  two  young  hearts. 


THE  CORONATION 


XVII 


"  THERE  en't  ara  village  in  the  country  what 
kept  Coronation  Day  better  nor  we,"  was  the 
universal  verdict  afterwards.  Indeed,  it  is 
doubtful  whether,  in  their  opinion,  there  was 
any  comparison  between  the  ceremony  in 
Westminster  Abbey  and  the  festivities  in 
honour  of  it  at  Little  Marpleton  ;  except  that 
His  Majesty,  King  George  the  Fifth,  was,  by 
force  of  circumstances,  compelled  to  be  present 
at  the  former  place. 

It  was  one  particular  phase  of  the  proceed- 
ings concerning  which  the  village  was  more 
particularly  elated.  Whereof  a  record  shall  be 
made. 

There  were,  of  course,  subscriptions.  Also 
a  committee,  of  which  Paason  was  elected 
chairman  and  well  supported  by  Farmers 
Wood  and  Gringer  and  other  reputable 
parishioners.  The  Committee,  when  discuss- 
ing the  important  subject  of  the  inner  man, 
without  which  no  programme  of  festivities 
was  complete,  fell  back — as  was  expected — on 

191 


192  DOWNLAND  ECHOES 

Bunter,  the  village  baker  and  grocer.  Bunter 
was  a  wonderful  little  man,  a'  veritable 
Napoleon  and  born  organiser — one  of  those 
men  whose  natural  function  it  is  to  stand, 
imperturbable,  with  folded  arms,  or  hands 
in  pockets,  making  other  people  work  by  sheer 
force  of  character. 

On  Bunter  a  deputation  from  the  Committee 
waited,  stated  what  they  desired,  and  explained 
the  limit  of  finances. 

Bunter  put  a  bit  of  paper  on  his  shop 
counter  and  set  down  quantities  of  figures 
with  the  stump  of  a  pencil.  Then  he  folded 
his  arms,  and  looked  the  deputation  straight  in 
the  face.  He  had  made  up  his  mind. 

Quite  calmly,  as  if  it  was  the  most  ordinary 
matter  in  the  world,  he  announced  that  he 
would  undertake  to  provide  a  dinner  for  every 
man,  woman,  and  child  in  the  village — there 
were  about  550 — the  said  dinner  to  consist 
of  hot  roast  beef  and  mutton,  potatoes  and 
greens,  plum-pudding,  cheese,  and  lemonade  or 
"  minerals  "  for  such  as  were  teetotallers.  And 
the  price  of  the  feast  was  to  be  one  shilling  per 
head.  He  would  see  to  all  arrangements  if 
Farmer  Gringer  would  clear  out  his  big  barn 
for  a  banqueting -hall,  in  which  case  there 
would  be  room  for  the  dinner  to  take  place  in 
two  relays. 


THE  CORONATION  193 

No,  he  didn't  think  he  would  lose  on  it. 
Nor  did  he  expect  to  make  a  profit.  But  he 
wanted  to  do  his  share. 

The  deputation,  with  sighs  of  relief,  left  the 
matter  in  his  hands.  They  knew  Bunter.  H  is 
word  was  sacred,  and  his  powers  of  carrying 
a  thing  through  without  disturbing  himself 
extraordinary. 

Bunter  was  lost  in  that  Downland  village. 
He  could  have  catered  for  an  Army  Corps  at 
half  an  hour's  notice  if  the  War  Office  had 
asked  him  to  do  it.  Unfortunately  for  the 
country,  however,  he  was  not  the  sort  of  man 
the  War  Office  would  have  asked.  They 
would  probably  have  refused  him  as  too 
capable. 

Other  details  were  duly  arranged,  including 
a  royal  salute  of  twenty-one  maroons,  a  public 
service  in  the  church,  sports  on  the  Play  Close, 
comprising,  among  other  events,  bowling  for  a 
pig — the  said  pig  being  offered  by  Farmer 
Wood  for  the  purpose  —  and  a  bonfire  at 
night. 

The  programme  seemed  complete,  but  the 
event  which  was  to  prove  the  most  worthy  of 
the  pride  of  the  village  was  yet  to  come. 

Over  the  Downs,  some  miles  from  the 
village,  in  a  large  plain  surrounded  by  the  hills, 
was  the  county  rifle  range,  and  the  crack  of 

13 


194  DOWNLAND  ECHOES 

the  Lee-Metford  could  often  be  heard  when 
the  wind  was  in  the  right  direction.  The 
War  Office  had  appointed  a  "  range  warden," 
and  he  had  taken  a  house  in  the  village  in 
order  to  be  near  the  scene  of  his  labours — the 
butts  on  the  lonely  Downs. 

Paason  was  in  his  study  one  day  when  the 
maid  announced : 

"  Sergeant  Tomlinson  to  see  you,  sir." 

Entered  the  range  warden,  a  fine  set-up 
typical  non-commissioned  officer. 

"  Sit  down,  Sergeant." 

The  Sergeant  sat,  bolt  upright,  on  the  edge 
of  his  chair,  cleared  his  throat,  and  made  an 
announcement. 

"I've  been  reckoning  up  the  men  in  the 
village  who  have  served  in  the  army,  sir." 

Paason  knew,  to  use  the  vernacular,  that 
there  were  a  "  smaart  few."  The  County 
Regiment  was  a  famous  one,  and  the  men  of 
the  Downland  had  done  much  to  make  it 
famous.  There  were  about  a  score  of  Little 
Marpleton  men  and  lads  serving  then  in  His 
Majesty's  Forces.  Only  last  week  his  study 
had  served  as  an  examination  hall  for  Harry 
Newman,  the  naval  recruiting  officer  having 
cycled  over  from  Redford  to  put  the  boy 
through  his  tests  in  the  three  R's. 

"  Well  ?"  he  asked. 


THE  CORONATION  195 

"  Some  of  'em  quite  old  men,  sir.  There's 
Joseph  Birch — he  was  through  the  Crimea — 
and  Samuel  Flitney :  he's  seen  active  service. 
You  wouldn't  think,  to  look  at  him  now,  that 
Jeremiah  Ball  was  once  a  lance-corporal  in  the 
Gordons." 

The  Sergeant  had  taken  a  list  of  names 
from  his  pocket,  and  was  consulting  it. 

"Ezra  Padge  and  William  Read  were  in 
the  Volunteers." 

"  So  was  I,  once,"  said  Paason. 

"  Indeed,  sir  ?     What  rank  may  I  ask  ?" 

"  Sergeant,"  answered  Paason. 

"  That  makes  nineteen,"  said  the  Sergeant, 
producing  a  pencil. 

"  Nineteen  what  ?" 

"  Nineteen  old  soldiers  in  the  village,  sir." 

"Well?" 

"  I've  got  an  idea,  sir.  How  would  it  do  to 
have  a  parade  of  old  soldiers  on  Coronation 
Day  ?  I'd  willingly  undertake  to  get  them 
together,  and  I'd  drill  them  two  or  three 
evenings  a  week  on  the  Play  Close  after  I 
come  back  from  the  range.  Broomsticks 
would  have  to  do  instead  of  rifles,"  he  added 
reflectively. 

"  Then,"  he  went  on,  "  we  could  parade  'em 
at  the  sports.  They  could  march  past  the 
flag  and  salute  it.  And,  if  the  band  were 


196  DOWNLAND  ECHOES 

willing,  we  could  march  all  round  the  village 
afterwards." 

"Capital  idea,"  said  Paiison.  "And  you 
shall  be  Colonel-in-Chief." 

The  Sergeant  accepted  his  promotion  with- 
out a  scrap  of  modesty. 

"  And  perhaps  you'll  act  as  Captain,  sir,"  he 
said,  making  the  appointment  with  great  con- 
descension. 

Thereupon  began  a  period  of  exciting 
interest.  The  Sergeant  was  wonderful.  He 
found  two  more  men  with  the  necessary 
qualifications.  But  the  most  marvellous  thing 
he  did  was  to  revive  the  military  spirit  of 
sundry  extremely  ancient  veterans.  Old  men, 
too  much  crippled  by  rheumatism  even"  to 
walk  a  few  hundred  yards  to  church,  tottered 
out  bravely  to  the  Play  Close,  shouldering 
broomsticks.  Joseph  Birch  suddenly  forgot 
to  stoop  at  all.  Jeremiah  Ball  discarded  his 
loutish  walk  and  marched  up  to  the  parade 
ground  with  firm,  quick  step  and  a  new  light 
in  his  eyes. 

Villagers  turned  out  to  watch  the  drill. 
Sergeant  Tomlinson,  swelling  with  professional 
pride,  roared  his  crisp  words  of  command  to 
the  veterans.  The  village  resounded  with 
"  Number  !"  "  Form  Fours  !"  and  stentorian 
ejaculations  from  the  "  manual  exercise."  Not 


THE  CORONATION  197 

a  single  laugh,  be  it  noted.  The  men  who 
stood  in  rank  before  the  Sergeant  were  stern 
of  face  and  deadly  in  earnest.  The  idea  of  a 
joke  was  absolutely  removed  from  their  minds. 
The  old,  old  men,  rigid  of  limb  and  fixed  of 
purpose,  shouldered  and  presented  broomsticks 
with  total  disregard  of  those  "  rheumatics  "  of 
which  they  had  spoken  so  often.  They  braced 
themselves  together  on  the  command  "  Quick 
— march"  and  went  boldly  forward  over  the 
Play  Close  with  true  military  precision.  They 
never  thought  of  shirking ;  the  old,  half- 
forgotten  discipline  had  gripped  them  once 
more.  They  were  soldiers !  Even  the 
"  bloods  "  dared  not  mock  them. 

The  great  day  dawned  at  last.  Jim  Stacey 
hauled  the  Union  Jack  up  the  flagstaff  on 
the  church  tower ;  the  deep-noted  bells  rang 
out  merrily.  There  was  a  goodly  number  of 
Church  folks  at  the  early  celebration.  Paason 
mounted  the  tower  and  fired  on  its  summit 
the  twenty-one  maroons,  the  delighted  children 
in  the  churchyard  below  shouting  out  the 
number  after  each  bang  till  there  came  the 
regretful  "Twenty-one !  'tis  all  over."  A  large 
congregation  assembled  for  the  special  service, 
and  the  nonconformists  present  were  delighted 
because  their  local  preacher  read  the  lessons. 


198  DOWNLAND  ECHOES 

Farmer  Gringer's  barn  was  packed  twice,  and 
the  redoubtable  Bunter  was  as  good  as  his 
word  and  Napoleonic  in  his  attitude,  keeping 
all  his  subordinates  running  about  with  nods 
and  brief  commands,  and  standing  still  like  a 
rock,  with  his  arms  folded  and  his  eyes  alert. 
They  fed  to  repletion  in  that  old  barn,  decorated 
with  flags  and  streamers  hanging  from  the 
oaken  rafters,  and  they  came  out  satisfied,  and 
saying : 

"Ah,  that  were  a  rare  good  dinner,  that 
'twere  1" 

The  sports  were  held  in  the  Play  Close,  and 
Tom  Horner,  as  they  thought  he  might  do, 
won  the  pig  and  went  homeward  in  triumph, 
with  the  squeaking  animal  tucked  under  his 
arm. 

And  then  came  the  great  event  of  the  day 
— the  Review. 

They  had  done  their  best,  and  they  turned 
out  marvellously.  Old  Joseph  Birch  had 
found  a  forage  cap,  which  was  perched  jauntily 
on  the  side  of  his  bald  head.  He  had  also  got 
his  wife  to  sew  red  braid  down  the  seams  of 
his  Sunday  trousers.  Samuel  Flitney  had 
hunted  out  an  ancient  red  tunic  which  prob- 
ably fitted  him  before  he  became  inclined  to 
rotundity,  but  now  had  to  be  laced  with  string 
from  button  to  buttonhole  across  the  interven- 


THE  CORONATION  199 

ing  space  on  his  manly  chest.  It  was  rumoured 
that  "  orkard "  old  Jeremiah  Ball,  late  lance- 
corporal  of  the  Gordon  Highlanders,  had  had  a 
"  smaart  few  words  "  with  his  equally  "  orkard  " 
old  wife,  who  had  caught  him  purloining  one 
of  her  petticoats  with  the  intention  of  appear- 
ing in  a  kilt,  but  that  she,  by  main  force,  had 
retained  the  garment,  forcing  him  to  fall  back 
on  a  borrowed  pair  of  white  flannel  trousers, 
which,  with  a  red  jersey  and  a  glengarry-cap, 
constituted  the  nearest  approach  to  Scotch 
costume  of  which  he  was  capable.  The  old 
man  with  a  long  white  beard,  wearing  a  spiked 
helmet  and  a  blue  frock-coat  with  a  leather 
belt  round  it,  was  William  Read,  and  very  well 
he  carried  himself,  too.  Out  they  came  with 
their  bits  of  old  uniform  if  they  had  got  them, 
or  their  attempts  to  make  their  ordinary 
clothing  look  a  trifle  military.  And  not  one 
of  them  had  the  vestige  of  a  smile  on  his 
face. 

The  entrance  of  the  Colonel-in-Chief  was 
magnificent,  and  never  to  be  forgotten.  He 
came  upon  the  field  riding  an  enormous  cart- 
horse borrowed  from  Farmer  Wood.  He 
wore  full  military  costume,  with  the  addition 
of  a  very  wi'de  crimson  sash  over  his  shoulder, 
and  a  gigantic  Indian  sword  dangling  from  his 
side. 


200  DOWNLAND  ECHOES 

Paason,  acting  as  Captain,  had  already 
paraded  the  company,  and  the  Colonel-in- 
Chief  advanced  towards  them  with  slow, 
majestic  pace,  came  to  a  halt,  and  gravely 
acknowledged  his  inferior  officer's  salute  with 
one  hand,  while  he  tugged  hard  at  the  bridle 
with  the  other  to  prevent  the  war  steed  stoop- 
ing his  head  to  crop  a  particularly  tempting 
morsel  of  grass. 

The  company  was  proved,  and  proceeded 
first  to  perform  the  manual  exercise  with  its 
broomsticks.  Then  various  evolutions  took 
place.  But  here  a  serious  difficulty  arose. 
The  horse  absolutely  refused  to  turn  in  the 
desired  direction.  Every  time  there  was  a 
change  of  front,  half  a  dozen  of  the  village 
lads  ran  to  the  Colonel's  rescue  and  literally 
pushed,  with  their  shoulders,  the  hind-quarters 
of  the  obdurate  animal  till  they  got  him  round 
to  the  right  position. 

Finally,  the  grand  march-past  took  place. 
Paason's  wife  stood  on  a  seat,  holding  above 
her  the  Union  Jack ;  the  band  struck  up  the 
National  Anthem ;  the  horse  was  hoisted 
round  so  that  his  rider  might  advance  at  the 
head  of  the  column.  The  Colonel-in-Chief, 
with  some  difficulty,  drew  his  great  sword ; 
the  Captain  gave  the  words  : 
"  Quick — march  !" 


THE  CORONATION  201 

And  the  column  moved  forward  amid  the 
cheers  of  the  onlookers. 

Arrived  at  the  "  saluting  point,"  the  Colonel 
brought  his  sword  to  the  salute,  and  roared 
out: 

"Eyes  right!" 

It  was  magnificently  done.  Only  when  the 
word  "  Halt !"  was  given  the  Colonel-in-Chief 
did  not  halt.  His  steed  bore  him  on  to 
the  palings  at  the  end  of  the  Play  Close, 
and  it  was  only  that  barrier  that  stopped 
him.  No  tuggings  at  the  rein  achieved  that 
purpose. 

After  the  "  Review  "  there  was  a  procession 
round  the  village.  And  it  was  a  good  mile 
round.  The  band  led,  of  course.  Then  came 
the  Colonel-in-Chief  in  all  his  glory  on  the 
great,  heavy-stepping  steed ;  the  steed  in 
question,  evincing  sundry  misgivings  with 
regard  to  the  thundering  of  the  big  drum, 
having  to  be  led  by  two  youths  grasping  his 
bridle,  one  on  either  side.  After  him  came 
the  veterans  marching  in  fours,  heads  erect 
and  steady.  Followed  a  couple  of  waggons 
containing  the  school  children,  most  of  them 
in  fancy  dress,  waving  flags  and  shouting 
shrilly.  Villagers  on  foot  formed  the  rest  of 
the  procession,  some  of  them  in  hastily  designed 
costumes.  Little  Marpleton  was  keeping  the 


202  DOWNLAND  ECHOES 

Coronation  in  style,  there  could  be  no  doubt 
about  it ! 

Those  veterans  marched  the  whole  circle  of 
the  village  without  stopping  and  without 
flinching.  Some  of  them  had  not  walked  so 
far  for  many  a  long  day,  could  not,  so  they 
averred,  get  out  at  all  "  without  'twas  to  goo 
up  street,"  which  unkind  folks  suggested  was 
synonymous  with  "  goin'  to  public." 

But  they  did  it,  and  were  satisfied.  Every- 
one was  satisfied.  The  Colonel  -  in  -  Chief 
rolled  off  the  recalcitrant  cart-horse  covered 
with  glory.  The  men  of  his  battalion,  finally 
dismissed  and  disbanded  for  ever,  walked  off 
to  their  homes  with  shouldered  broomsticks, 
in  conscious  pride ;  those  whose  homes  lay 
near  or  beyond  the  Blue  Lion  not  exactly 
passing  that  establishment  with  undue  haste. 
Indeed,  it  was  rumoured  that  there  was  very 
nearly  a  broomstick  duel  between  Jeremiah 
Ball  and  Samuel  Flitney  in  the  taproom  on 
account  of  the  latter  having  publicly  accused 
the  ancient  ex-lance-corporal  of  being  out  of 
step  during  the  march  past. 

Later,  when  darkness  had  fallen,  you  could 
see,  from  the  top  of  the  church  tower,  nigh 
a  score  of  ruddy  bonfires  blazing  on  the 
heights  above  and  far  over  the  plain  on 
distant  hilltops.  All  was  quiet  now  in  the 


THE  CORONATION  203 

village  below.  The  night  grew  darker,  the  fires 
still  blazed,  solitary  beacons  of  the  loyalty  of  the 
Downland,  points  of  red  flame  in  the  blackness, 
tokens  that  the  men  of  the  uplands  loved  the 
country  which  God  had  given  unto  them,  red 
heralds  to  show  that  the  same  spirit  which  had 
animated  those  veterans  would,  in  the  days 
that  were  coming,  inspire  the  younger  genera- 
tion to  give  their  life-blood  for  the  land  of 
their  homes  and  affections. 

The  memory  of  that  day  lingered.  Long 
afterwards  it  was  said,  especially  by  the 
veterans  themselves,  in  the  words  with  which 
this  sketch  begins : 

"There  en't  ara  village  in  the  country 
what  kept  Coronation  Daay  better  nor  we." 

And  probably  they  were  right. 


PLAGE  NAMES 


XVIII 
PLACE  NAMES 

"CuT  THROAT  LANE,"  mentioned  in  a  pre- 
ceding sketch,  was  only  one  of  the  many  place 
names  in  and  about  the  village.  Some  of  them 
were  easy  enough  to  detect  as  far  as  their  origin 
was  concerned ;  others  baffled  both  research 
and  speculation. 

"  Going  up  lydds"  for  example,  referring  to 
an  ascent  of  the  sides  of  the  Downs,  was  only 
a  retention  of  an  original  Anglo-Saxon  word 
for  hillsides.  So  was  that  marshy  and  semi- 
useless  bit  of  ground  in  the  lower  part  of 
the  village  known  as  "  Slad  End,"  slad  being 
the  original  for  a  swamp. 

"  Hunt's  grave,"  of  course,  was  easy  to 
determine,  although  there  was  no  tombstone 
or  even  grassy  mound  to  mark  the  spot  where, 
doubtless,  still  lay  the  remains  of  the  defunct 
"  Hunt,"  advisedly  shorn  of  his  Christian  name. 
For  it  was  no  Christian  burial  that  was  ever 
accorded  to  Hunt.  "  Hunt's  grave "  was 
where  the  roads  crossed  just  outside  the  village 
and  Hunt  himself  was  probably  a  suicide, 

207 


208  DOWNLAND  ECHOES 

buried  in  the  centre  of  the  cross — they  would 
not  let  him  quite  escape  the  symbol  of 
redemption — with  a  stake  driven  through  him 
firmly.  No  one  remembered  ever  having 
heard  anything  about  Hunt,  and  probably 
few  ever  coupled  the  name  of  the  place  with 
tragedy  and  old-time  superstitions. 

Three  out  of  the  four  trackways  or  paths 
"  up  lydds  "  were  easily  definable.  "  The  Cow 
Way  "  was  the  road  up  which  cows  used  to  be 
driven  to  graze  on  the  "cow  common."  "  Wood 
Way"  led  to  the  little  wood  whence  winter 
fuel  was  carried  down  ;  "  Boham's  Road  "  had 
originally  been  made  by  a  farmer  of  that  name 
who  cultivated  both  a  lower  and  an  upper 
farm,  and  wanted  a  direct  means  of  com- 
munication between  the  two.  Everyone  had 
forgotten  about  Boham,  and  none  of  his  name 
remained  anywhere  about,  but  "  Boham's 
Road "  is  likely  to  survive  to  baffle  the  in- 
vestigations of  future  archaeologists,  who  will, 
doubtless,  put  a  whole  series  of  contradictory 
and  utterly  false  interpretations  upon  it,  accord- 
ing to  the  manner  of  many  of  their  kind. 

The  fourth  road  up  to  the  Downs  was  known 
as  "  White  Shoot."  It  was  certainly  white 
enough,  being  all  chalk,  for  ever  washed  clean 
by  rains — a  straggling  line  up  the  hillside 
visible  miles  away.  Whether  "  Shoot "  was 


PLACE  NAMES  209 

originally  "chute"  cannot  be  said  with  certainty. 
It  decidedly  was  a  chute  of  water  when  rain 
fell  heavily. 

Two  solitary  houses  up  on  the  Downs,  wind- 
swept and  exposed  to  all  weathers,  approached 
by  trackways  from  "Boham's  Road,"  which 
were  almost  impassable  in  the  winter,  rejoiced 
in  the  names  of  "Salt  Box"  and  "Slink" 
respectively.  "  Salt  Box "  was  evident,  the 
cottage  closely  resembling  an  old-fashioned 
saltcellar.  "  Slink "  was  not  so  easily  de- 
cipherable, but  its  origin  was  interesting  as 
showing  the  peculiar  manner  in  which  "  place 
names  "  may  arise,  and  the  utter  impossibility 
of  the  most  learned  archaeologist  ever  solving 
the  thing  from  mere  "  book  larnin.' " 

When  the  cottage  was  being  built,  many 
years  ago,  a  bricklayer  was  employed  who  was 
a  stranger  in  the  neighbourhood.  He  had  fled 
to  the  countryside  for  peace,  fled  from  the  con- 
stant reproaches,  verbal  and  otherwise,  of  a 
termagant  wife. 

But,  alas !  his  wife  tracked  him  down. 
Triumphantly  she  came  to  the  village  and  went 
"  up  lydds  "  bent  on  recapture,  and,  perchance, 
chastisement.  For,  in  every  respect,  she 
seemed  to  have  been  his  better  half.  He,  un- 
suspecting mortal,  was  cheerfully  engaged  in  the 
leisurely  art  of  laying  brick  upon  brick,  pausing 

14 


210  DOWNLAND  ECHOES 

to  contemplate  his  handiwork  after  each  suc- 
cessive brick  was  laid,  according  to  approved 
methods  when  not  engaged  in  piece-work,  when, 
happening  to  look  around,  he  saw  the  terror 
from  whom  he  had  fled  approaching  as  an  aveng- 
ing Nemesis.  Dropping  his  trowel  he  slid, 
rather  than  walked  down  the  ladder  from  the 
scaffolding,  and  hid  round  the  corner  of  the  half- 
completed  cottage. 

Too  late  1  A  shrill  voice  cried,  in  the  hearing 
of  his  fellow-lords  of  creation  : 

"  I  see  yer,  Bill !  Tryin'  to  slink  round  the 
earner.  Come  along  out  of  it !" 

History  does  not  record  the  unhappy  future 
of  Bill.  But  from  that  day  the  name  slink 
stuck  to  the  house.  They  tried  to  call  it  Rose 
Cottage  long  afterwards,  but  the  village  was 
conservative  over  the  matter  of  names,  and 
they  never  succeeded. 

But  why  should  the  word  "  slink  "  have  made 
such  an  impression  ?  There  is  a  reason.  Rural 
vocabularies  are  very  small.  "  Slink  "  was  an 
imported  word,  imported  by  that  rank  outsider, 
Bill's  wife.  In  all  probability  they  had  never 
heard  it  used  before.  It  was  utterly  new  to 
them.  Few  things  appeal  more  to  the  peculiar 
humorous  sense  of  the  true  rustic  than  the 
sound  of  a  strange  word.  They  will  bandy  it 
about  as  a  joke  of  the  first  cream  for  weeks. 


PLACE  NAMES  211 

"  Told  un  'a  wor  a-tryin'  to  slink  round  the 
earner  !  Haw,  haw,  haw  !" 

"  Slink  ?     Is  that  what  th'  'ooman  said  ?" 

"  Ah !  Slink  round  the  earner,  she  said. 
Didn't  her,  Jim  ?  You  heered  her." 

"Ah,"  assents  Jim,  "  she  says, '  tryin'  to  slink 
round  the  earner,'  she  says.  I  never  heered 
tell  o'  sich  a  word  afore.  Haw,  haw,  haw !" 

And  so  they  went  on.  And  the  young 
"  bloods  "  of  the  village  captured  the  word  and 
shouted  it  at  bashful  maidens,  or  at  shy  old 
Reuben  Martin,  who  always  vanished  indoors 
when  the  group  of  "  bloods  "  came  "  up  street " 
o'  Sunday  afternoons. 

The  village  may  have  forgotten  the  incident, 
but  it  handed  down  that  new  and  striking  word 
to  posterity.  And  "  Slink  "  will  always  be  the 
name  of  that  lonely  cottage  on  the  Downs. 

Outside  the  village,  on  the  lower  side,  was  a 
large  meadow  known  as  "  Bridus."  Paason, 
who  liked  to  get  at  the  meaning  of  things,  was 
baffled  in  his  attempts  to  discover  the  origin  of 
this  strange  name.  But  one  day  he  met  old 
Amos  Weedon  sunning  himself  in  the  meadow 
in  question.  Paason  stopped  to  have  a  chat 
with  him. 

Amos  was  a  bit  reminiscent  that  afternoon. 
After  making  his  proud  and  oft-repeated  boast 
that  he  had  never  slept  a  single  night  out  of 


DOWNLAND  ECHOES 

the  village  ever  since  he  was  born  there,  he 
began  to  conjure  up  the  memories  of  those 
superior  times  which  only  exist  in  the  past, 
amongst  other  matters  bewailing  the  fact  that 
the  village  possessed  fewer  houses  than  it  did 
when  he  was  young. 

"  When  I  were  a  lad,  sir,"  he  said,  "  there 
was  a  cottage  still  standin'  in  this  very  field — 
just  over  there  'twas,"  and  he  pointed  out  the 
place  with  his  stick. 

"  And  a  very  nice  open  spot  to  live  in,  too," 
said  Paason. 

But  Amos  shook  his  head. 

"  No  one  lived  in  un,"  he  replied,  "  and  they 
used  to  say — them  as  remembered — that  no 
one  ever  had  a-lived  in  un,  'ceptin'  for  a  few 
daays  at  a  time." 

"  How  was  that  ?"  asked  Paiison,  beginning 
to  be  puzzled. 

"  Why,  it  used  to  be  kept  for  new  married 
couples  to  spend  their  honeymoon  in — so  they 
used  to  saay  when  I  were  a  lad." 

There  was  the  origin  of  Bridus  apparent  at 
once.  The  old  cottage  was  originally  called 
the  "Bride  House."  And  an  interesting 
chapter  of  the  ancient  life  and  customs  of  the 
village  was  laid  bare  with  the  revelation. 

Another  place  name  that  was  delightfully 
self-evident  was  the  "  Play  Close."  The  Play 


PLACE  NAMES  213 

Close  was  an  irregular  green  in  the  very  centre 
of  the  village,  surrounded  by  orchards  and  with 
a  stream  that  bubbled  up  in  a  pool  under  the 
Downs,  flowing  on  two  sides  of  it.  The  Play 
Close  was  approached  by  four  separate  foot- 
paths, two  of  them  leading  between  ancient 
mud  walls,  broadly  thatched  on  top,  paths  that 
one  could  not  traverse  without  being  reminded 
of  Balaam  and  his  loquacious  ass. 

The  Play  Close  was  a  Close  and  was  a  Play 
Close.  It  was  the  happiest  place  in  the  village 
for  the  children.  Safe  were  they  from  mothers 
calling  them  indoors ;  they  could  make  as 
much  noise  as  they  chose,  for  noise  emphasis- 
ing the  personal  element  is  the  great  joy  of  all 
games,  and  the  Play  Close  was  meant  for 
games.  Twice  a  day,  in  school-time,  they  came 
flocking  down  the  path  from  the  school  for  the 
precious  fifteen  minutes  of  "  recreation,"  shout- 
ing and  laughing  and  quarrelling  as  to  which 
boy  was  to  "go  in  first  and  bat "  or  which  girl 
was  to  lead  with  skipping  rope.  And  there 
was  once  an  exceedingly  silly,  utterly  foolish 
and  palpably  imbecile  person,  who  wrote 
H.M.I,  after  his  name,  visited  the  school  and 
suggested  that  there  ought  to  be  an  asphalted 
playground,  and  that  the  Play  Close  was 
too  far  from  the  school!  (It  was  exactly 
110  yards.)  It  was  the  same  miserable  unin- 


214  DOWNLAND  ECHOES 

structed  person  who  told  Tommy  Bates,  before 
the  whole  school,  that  he  ought  to  wash  his 
face  before  he  came  downstairs  in  the  morning, 
and  then  wondered  why  all  the  children  laughed 
at  him,  and  hadn't  the  common  sense  to  know 
that  no  child  ever  did  wash  his  or  her  face  up- 
stairs, but  that  ablutions  were  performed  over 
the  sink — or  a  pail  of  water  in  the  back  garden. 
The  silly  idiot  I  Fortunately  he  was  not 
allowed  to  carry  his  suggestions  into  operation, 
and  the  Play  Close  still  remained  what  it 
was  meant  to  be. 

Thither  came  groups  of  children  on  Saturday 
holidays,  waded  in  the  stream  to  their  hearts' 
content — and  the  detriment  of  their  wearing 
apparel — just  as  children  should  do. 

The  Play  Close  was  sometimes  the  scene  of 
wider  rejoicings.  More  mature  folks  remem- 
bered the  Jubilees  of  Queen  Victoria,  younger 
ones  recollected  the  Coronations  of  King 
Edward  and  King  George.  And  on  these 
occasions  there  were  solemn  sports  held  in  the 
Play  Close — to  wit,  foot  races,  bowling  for 
pigs,  ducking  for  apples,  and  the  wondrous 
performances  of  the  village  brass  band. 

Annually,  too,  came  the  never-to-be-for- 
gotten festival  of  Guy  Fawkes.  Weeks  pre- 
viously boys  begged  *'  faggots "  and  tree 
loppings  from  the  farmers  and  Paa'son,  dragged 


PLACE  NAMES  215 

them  with  ropes  to  the  centre  of  the  Close, 
littering  all  paths  by  the  way.  Slowly  but 
surely  the  pile  arose,  higher  and  higher,  and 
passers  through  gazed  thereon  and  exclaimed, 
"  Wun't  'em  have  a  bonfire  on  the  fifth,  just !" 
And  when  the  fifth  came  the  superior 
"  bloods  "  of  the  village  took  matters  in  hand. 
Younger  fry  had  made  the  pile,  but  they  saw 
to  the  firing  thereof,  and  made  their  special 
contributions,  bringing  mysterious  gifts  of  tar 
and  oil  as  an  offering  to  the  defunct — the 
said  Guido  Fawkes.  Moreover,  they  made 
their  annual  collection  of  the  decayed  besoms 
of  the  inhabitants,  broomsticks  with  very  little 
of  the  "  broom  "  left  thereon.  Fireworks  they 
scorned — a  few  penny  or  halfpenny  squibs  or 
crackers  sufficing.  But  the  brooms  were  the 
thing.  Once  the  fire  was  well  alight  it 
was  etiquette  for  each  "  blood  "  to  saturate  his 
broom  with  tar  or  paraffin,  ignite  it  and  race 
round  the  Play  Close,  whirling  the  fiery  brand 
about  his  head,  to  the  terror  of  all  maidens, 
who  would  stay,  nevertheless.  It  might  have 
been  some  ancient  ceremony  of  the  worship  of 
the  fire  god.  Certainly  no  pyrotechnic  display 
at  the  Crystal  Palace  ever  brought  so  much 
delight  to  the  spectators  as  did  the  orgy  of  the 
fifth  on  the  Play  Close. 


216  DOWNLAND  ECHOES 

Paason,  who  had  ceased  to  be  Paason  there, 
revisited  the  village  after  some  years,  and  sat 
himself  down  on  the  "  Coronation  seat  "  on  the 
Play  Close.  Slowly  a  villager  came  across  the 
green,  his  head  bowed  down.  He  raised  it, 
recognising  Paason.  There  was  nothing  ex- 
citing about  his  greeting — they  were  a  stolid 
race,  but  his  hand-clasp  was  a  warm  one. 
And  Paason  noticed  that  the  man  had  aged. 

"  Yes,  sir — there  was  Tom  and  Peter.  Tom 
was  killed  out  i'  th'  Dardanelles.  And  Peter, 
he  died  o'  wounds  in  France.  And  last  week 
we  heard  as  how  Harry's  killed.  There's  only 
Charlie  left  now — he's  on  the  North  Sea  some- 
where." 

He  paused,  and  looked  round  awkwardly. 
Then  added,  "  But  we'll  beat  'em  yet,  sir — 
doan't  ye  think  ?" 

And  Paason,  as  the  man  went  on,  saw  Tom 
and  Peter  whirling  blazing  brooms  round  the 
bonfire,  and  Harry,  ever  naughty,  was  pad- 
dling in  that  stream — was  it  only  a  few 
days  ago  ? — and  using  language  that  he  had 
no  business  to  use.  And  Charlie — most  mis- 
chievous of  all — was  yelling  at  the  wicket 
and  shouting  he  "  warn't  out,"  while  all  the 
others  were  shouting  that  he  was. 

And  now — only  Charlie  was  left,  and  he  was 
on  the  North  Sea ! 


PLACE  NAMES  217 

If  the  playing  fields  of  Eton  were  ever 
responsible  for  great  leaders  of  men,  the 
ancient  Play  Close  of  that  village,  slumbering 
in  the  Downland,  had  surely  seen  lads  who 
were  going  to  be  heroes.  But  the  world  never 
knew  it  then  ! 


DARK  DAYS 


XIX 
DARK  DAYS 

THE  fringe  of  a  black  cloud  from  the  outer 
world  came  over  the  quiet,  sunny  Downland. 
The  cloud  spread  and  the  darkness  gathered. 

A  cry  from  the  outer  world  came  ringing 
over  the  peaceful  Downland,  penetrating  to 
the  farthest  hills  and  remotest  villages !  And 
the  cry  was  for  men ! 

Some  of  the  older  men  depicted  in  these 
sketches  never  heard  that  cry.  Farmer  Wood 
had  gone  to  his  rest.  Jim  Stacey  or  William 
Budd  had  dug  graves  in  the  churchyard  for 
Amos  Weedon,  Jeremiah  Ball,  Ezra  Padge, 
and  others,  who  had  laid  down  their  tired 
lives. 

But  there  were  many  left  who  heard  that 
call,  and  answered  it,  in  their  calm,  dogged 
way.  They  left  sheep  and  plough  and  cattle 
and  walked  away,  with  steadfast  purpose,  to 
the  recruiting  station.  The  little  clusters  of 
"  bloods "  at  the  favourite  corners  thinned 
perceptibly ;  the  younger  men  were  not  seen 
in  the  taproom  of  the  Blue  Lion,  or  in  the 

221 


222  DOWNLAND  ECHOES 

Working  Men's  Club  o'  nights.  Lads  who,  so 
it  seemed  to  Schoolmaster,  had  not  been  long 
out  of  his  keeping,  went  to  bid  him  farewell. 
There  was  no  enthusiastic  "  send  off,"  no  noise 
about  it.  They  only  seemed  to  melt  away. 
There  were  few  young  men  with  badges  in 
their  hats  at  the  Michaelmas  hiring  fair  at 
Derringford.  They  had  accepted  a  shilling 
from  another  hand  than  that  of  the  farmer. 

By  Christmas  nearly  every  man  under  mili- 
tary age  had  donned  blue  or  khaki.  They  all 
went  willingly.  It  was  before  the  days  of 
compulsion.  And  they  said,  "  We  en't  going 
to  wait  till  we  be  fetched." 

Three  years  later  the  sun  shone  on  the 
golden  stubble  fields  on  "lydds";  the  sweet 
fresh  breeze  blew  softly  over  the  high  Downs. 
Standing  on  the  Saint's  Mound  you  beheld 
the  village  below,  the  white  church  tower,  the 
red  and  thatched  roofs  of  the  cottages,  the 
blue  smoke  curling  upwards. 

Just  the  same  Downland  village.  "  As  it 
was  in  the  beginning,  is  now,  and  ever  shall 
be." 

No  I  As  you  came  down  "  lydds  "  from  the 
hilltops  your  eye  lighted  on  things  unfamiliar 
in  the  old  days.  That  was  not  a  team  of 
massive  horses  drawing  a  plough,  and  turning 
the  yellow  stubble  into  long  brown  ridges  of 


DARK  DAYS  223 

mother  earth.  No  team  ever  moved  across  a 
field  so  swiftly.  A  whiff  of  petrol  was  borne 
upon  the  breeze  as  the  motor-plough  came 
nearer.  And  a  fresh-faced  girl,  with  light 
smock  and  slouch  hat,  grasped  the  steering- 
wheel,  with  oil-stained  hands.  Old  Farmer 
Gringer  used  to  say  that  he  "  didn't  hold  with 
those  new-fangled  things,  there  was  nought  to 
turn  the  sods  equal  to  a  good,  old-fashioned 
Downland  plough  and  a  stout  team  to  draw  it." 

Yet  it  was  across  one  of  Farmer  Gringer's 
fields  that  the  new-fangled  bit  of  machinery 
was  hastening. 

Farther  down  was  a  bit  of  late  harvest 
being  gathered  in.  Farmer  Briggs  always  did 
have  a  field  to  be  carried  after  everybody  else 
had  finished.  And  Farmer  Briggs,  who,  in  his 
way,  was  as  conservative  as  Farmer  Gringer, 
had  always  maintained  that  no  one  but  the 
real,  genuine  countryman,  was  ever  qualified 
to  work  on  the  land.  But  those  four  or  five 
young  lads  in  the  harvest-field  were  no  deni- 
zens of  the  Downland.  Something  in  their 
movements  told  you  that  before  you  came  to 
the  field,  and  when  you  were  near  enough  to 
catch  the  sound  of  their  voices,  you  knew  they 
never  spoke  the  Downland  vernacular.  One 
of  them  shouted  out  to  a  little  boy  who  was 
leading  the  empty  waggon  : 


224,  DOWNLAND  ECHOES 

"  Bring  it  across  here." 

Whereas  the  correct  phrase  would  have  been : 

"  Bring  un  athert  to  we,  wull  'ee  1" 

They  were  lads  from  our  public   schools. 

And   Farmer   Briggs,   prejudices   abandoned, 

was  only  too  glad  to  house  and  feed  them ; 

p.nd  his  old  foreman  remarked  that  "  they  did 

wonnerful  well   considering   and,"  what  was 

still  more  incomprehensible,  did  it  "  without 

ara  drop  o'  beer  all  daily,  look  'ee  1"  whereat 

William    Budd,   to  whom    the    remark  was 

made,  shook  his  head  over  what  he  probably 

considered  to  be  the  strange  deficiency  of  the 

rising  generation  of  the  outside  world,  and 

replied  truly,  "  They  en't  loike  we,  then  !" 

In  the  village  there  were  other  things  to 
note.  Bunter's  bread  cart  came  "  up  street," 
and  the  driver  thereof  was  Bunter's  daughter, 
arrayed  in  neat,  short  skirt,  with  a  satchel 
slung  over  her  shoulder.  And  when,  as  she 
stepped  down  outside  young  Farmer  Wood's 
house,  and  put  loaves  in  her  basket,  you  asked 
her  what  had  become  of  Bunter's  man,  that 
pale,  delicate -looking  fellow,  who  used  to 
preach  in  the  local  chapel,  she  told  you  he  was 
"  somewhere  in  the  North  Sea,  with  the  Fleet," 
and  went  on  to  say  that  she  supposed  you'd 
heard  that  young  Farmer  Wood  had  just  got  his 
commission,  and  was  still  in  France,  and  that 


DARK  DAYS  225 

Mrs.  Wood  was  running  the  farm,  with  the 
help  of  old  Joseph  Birch,  whose  rheumatism 
was  as  bad  as  ever. 

The  carrier's  cart  was  coming  into  the  village 
from  Derringford,  driven  by  a  buxom  woman. 
And  before  very  long  you  knew  that  Harry 
Hurst,  the  carrier,  lay  buried  among  scores  of 
others  of  the  county  regiment  across  the 
Channel.  You  would  have  known  this  even 
if  no  one  had  told  you,  for,  at  the  side  of  the 
straggling  village  street  was  a  new  erection, 
with  flowers  before  it,  and  beneath  the  words, 
"  The  Heroic  Dead,"  on  one  of  the  panels,  was 
the  name  of  Harry  Hurst,  in  a  column  all  too 
long.  Dick  Webster,  that  young  imp  of  mis- 
chief, had  gone  ;  and  that  taciturn,  surly  fellow, 
Jim  Blake,  had  made  the  great  sacrifice.  And 
that  good,  decent  chap,  Peter  Tomkins — whose 
cottage  was  always  so  well  cared  for  by  his 
bright  young  wife — he,  too,  was  on  the  list. 

In  the  orchard  by  the  side  of  the  road  two 
women  were  on  ladders  gathering  rosy- 
cheeked  apples,  for  "  fruitin' "  was  just  begin- 
ning to  be  in  full  swing. 

The  door  of  the  carpenter's  shop  stood  open 
as  you  passed  "up  street"  and  there  was  a 
sound  of  hammering  within.  A  girl,  with  her 
sleeves  rolled  up,  was  wielding  the  hammer. 
Mine  host  of  the  Blue  Lion  stood,  shirt-sleeved 

15 


226  DOWNLAND  ECHOES 

as  ever,  on  his  doorstep,  but  his  hair  had  gone 
very  grey  and  he  had  lost  the  merry  twinkle 
in  his  eyes.  You  knew  why. 

He  did  not  say  much  when  you  offered  him 
a  word  of  sympathy.  He  looked  down  and 
muttered  something  that  was  half  inaudible. 
But  then  you  knew  that  the  men  of  the  Down- 
land  rarely  gave  outward  expression  concerning 
the  things  in  the  depths  of  their  souls. 

There  were  so  few  men  about,  and  they 
were  the  older  ones,  plodding  by  with  slow, 
weary  steps.  A  sadness  had  come  over  the 
village,  all  the  more  sad  because  it  was  all  so 
quiet.  The  Downland  lay  in  the  throes  of  a 
great,  world-wide  grief.  Yet  it  had  never 
grudged  its  sturdy,  simple,  honest-hearted 
sons. 

Schoolmaster  was  leaning  over  his  gate,  pipe 
in  mouth,  a  familiar  figure  in  a  familiar 
attitude.  He  was  talking  to  one  of  his  old 
boys — one  of  the  village  "bloods,"  who  was 
clothed  in  khaki.  Poor  lad,  he  would  never 
run  round  the  bonfire  on  the  Play  Close  again. 
Slowly  and  painfully  he  limped  away  on 
crutches ;  and  Schoolmaster  opened  the  gate 
and  asked  you  to  come  in,  that  he  might  tell 
you  all  about  his  own  boys  at  the  front. 

With  all  its  sadness  there  was  an  atmosphere 
about  the  Downland  that  you  had  never  really 


DARK  DAYS  .  227 

grasped  before — an  atmosphere  of  simple 
heroism  that  brought  the  sense  of  an  unseen 
glamour  over  the  great  rolling  hills  and  the 
clustering  villages.  From  God's  wide,  open 
country,  from  the  little  thatched  cottages, 
from  the  lonely,  remote  habitations  of  the 
Downs,  steadily  true  to  their  unobtrusive,  silent 
nature,  the  men  had  gone  forth  cheerfully  to 
give  their  lives  for  freedom — for  home  ! 

They  were  men  of  the  open  Downland,  men 
who  had  something  of  the  unfathomable 
mystery  of  the  wind-swept  Downs  in  their  very 
being.  The  world  had  never  known  that  they 
were  heroes  all  the  time,  but  had  sometimes 
scorned  them  as  country  yokels.  But  the 
world  outside  never  understood  them  aright. 
Like  the  Downs  themselves,  they  held  the 
secret  of  their  lives  in  taciturn  silence.  But 
God  meant  the  outer  world  to  know  the  worth 
of  His  Downland  children. 


THE  AFTERMATH 


XX 

THE  AFTERMATH 

'*  PAASON,"  now  Vicar  of  a  large  town  parish, 
harked  back,  often,  in  memory  to  the  Down- 
land  village,  and  one  day  revisited  it.  Over 
three  years  had  elapsed  since  the  termination 
of  the  Great  War,  and  he  wondered,  as  he  saw 
the  grey  tower  of  the  old  church,  what  changes 
he  would  find. 

Just  outside  the  village  he  passed  a  row  of 
six  perfectly  incongruous  dwellings,  all  built  to 
pattern,  and  abnormally  ugly.  The  monster 
yclept  the  "  Housing  Scheme "  had  invaded 
the  Downland  and  left  his  uncompromising 
mark  by  the  roadside. 

Tom  Homer,  dark  of  face  and  eye,  lean  and 
saturnine,  greeted  Paason  with  a  nod  as  the 
latter  entered  the  village.  Tom  Horner  had 
not  seen  him  for  years,  but  the  undemonstra- 
tive nod  was  characteristic.  Tom  was  one  of 
the  "  bad  men  "  of  the  village,  which  is  to  say 
that  none  could  touch  him  in  the  unlawful 
profession  of  snaring  other  people's  hares. 
Moreover,  he  was  possessed  of  a  taciturn  but 

231 


232  DOWNLAND  ECHOES 

somewhat  ugly  temper,  and  on  more  than 
one  occasion  Paason  and  he  had  fallen  out 
badly  in  the  old  days.  So  much  so  that  once, 
when  in  Paason's  study,  his  language  was  more 
forcible  than  polite,  Paason  had  told  him  that 
if  he  could  not  be  civil  he  would  put  him  out 
of  the  room. 

"  I'd  like  to  see  'ee  do  it !"  replied  Tom 
Horner. 

"  You  shall,"  Paason  had  answered. 

And  incontinently  Tom  had  been  precipi- 
tated through  the  open  French  window  on  to 
the  lawn  outside. 

Wherefore,  on  the  present  occasion,  Tom 
knew  perfectly  well  what  Paason  meant  when 
the  latter  said  to  him : 

"  Well,  Tom,  you  and  I  haven't  met  for  a 
long  time,  eh  ?  When  1  was  here  we  didn't 
always  agree — but  you  got  rid  of  me  at  last  1" 

Whereupon  Tom  Horner  paid  Paason  one 
of  the  finest  compliments  he  had  ever  received. 

"  We  en't  bettered  'ee !"  he  exclaimed,  and 
passed  on  without  another  word. 

Paason  progressed  slowly  "up  street." 
Greetings  were  the  order  of  the  day,  greetings 
apparently  as  undemonstrative  as  those  of  Tom 
Horner,  but  genuine,  all  the  same.  News  of 
themselves  and  the  village  were  told  him 
simply,  nor  questions  asked  of  his  own  doings 


THE  AFTERMATH  233 

— beyond  the  state  of  his  health.  Thus  had  it 
ever  been.  Beyond  the  confines  of  the  parish 
they  had  rarely  been  interested.  Sometimes 
returning  from  his  summer  holiday  he  had 
told  them  of  places  he  had  visited  and  things 
he  had  seen.  They  had  listened  patiently  and 
courteously,  and  when  he  stopped  had  said : 

"  The  tater  crop  en't  up  to  much,  sir.  Them 
late  frostes  was  a  casalty  job  for  taters." 

Or: 

"  Feyther's  rheumatiz  doan't  sim  to  get  no 
better.  'A  be  pretty  middlin'  just  now,  sir." 

Sharp-witted  people  who  live  in  towns  wrote 
pamphlets  and  articles  prophesying  to  a  nicety 
the  state  of  the  rural  villages  after  the  war, 
telling  us  that  the  men  who  came  back  would 
return  with  a  "  vision."  The  word  "  vision  " 
was  as  common  in  such  prophecies  as  the  word 
"reconstruction."  These  people  told  us  that 
the  men  would  never  again  fit  in  with  the  old 
dull  routine  of  village  life — that  they  would 
"  demand  "  (another  common  word)  fresh  con- 
ditions, institutes,  amusements,  facilities  for 
self-education  and  improvement,  and  all  the 
rest  of  it. 

And  Paason  met  Sam  Bidmead,  who  had 
fought  at  Gallipoli  and  in  France,  and  been 
wounded  and  decorated  and  promoted  to  the 
rank  of  sergeant,  and  was  one  of  those  who, 


234  DOWNLAND  ECHOES 

having  seen  the  outer  world,  was  going  to  re- 
form the  conditions  of  village  life.  And  Sam 
Bidmead  was  strangely  reticent  about  Gallipoli 
and  France  and  all  the  rest  of  it,  and  did  not 
talk  of  social  improvement  or  higher  education, 
or  a  virulent  desire  for  a  small  holding. 

"  Yes — I  be  married  now,  sir.  You  rec'lect 
Emma  Yates  ?  'Tis  she  as  I  got  fur  a  wife. 
Come  down  the  garden  and  have  a  look  at  my 
pigs,  sir.  They  be  doin'  well.  Yes — I  works 
for  Muster  Wood,  saame  as  I  used  to  it,  and 
glad  enough  I  be  to  be  whoam  and  settled 
down.  And  I  still  rings  up  at  t'  church — that 
'ere  fifth  bell  be  as  unked  as  ever  to  ring  up  !" 

A  small  indication  of  a  possible  new  order  of 
things  was  hinted  at.  Paiison  was  informed 
by  sundry  of  an  event  that  had  taken  place  in 
the  village  the  previous  day.  A  "  Women's 
Institute  "  had  blossomed  forth  and  there  had 
been  a  meeting — and  speeches.  Three  or  four 
motor-cars  appeared  to  have  brought  in  parti- 
sans. As  old  Josiah  Collins  described  it 
forcibly : 

"  Ah,  you  ought  to  ha'  bin  here  yesterday, 
sir.  There  was  a  meetin'  of  this  here  Women's 
summat  or  other.  1  doan't  know  when  I  see 
so  many  folk  about.  'Twas  moare  loike 
London  here,  yesterday,  I  reckon  1" 

War's  aftermath  was  also  apparent  among  the 


THE  AFTERMATH  235 

menfolk  of  the  village,  but  not  in  the  manner 
prophesied  by  the  pamphleteers.  Matthew 
Keen  had  given  up  those  few  acres  upon  which 
he  had  toiled  so  laboriously  for  years. 

"I  was  forced  to  it,  look  'ee,  sir.  These 
en't  no  toimes  for  small  holdin's,  as  they  calls 
'em,  wi'  prices  what  they  be.  I  should  ha'  lost 
what  little  I'd  got  if  I'd  a  kep'  on.  So  I  goes 
to  work  now  on  Muster  Harris'  farm,  and  glad 
I  be  to  get  regular  money.  "Pis  a  casalty  job 
for  a  man  to  work  for  hisself." 

Others,  however,  had  forsaken  the  land  in  a 
different  way.  The  tag  end  of  erstwhile  big 
munition  works  still  dragged  along  in  a  big 
village  some  four  miles  away.  Thither  men 
still  went  their  way  on  bicycles  in  the  early 
morn,  for  sake  of  higher  wages  than  the 
farmer  was  bound — rather  than  willing — to 
give.  Not  that  the  farmer  seemed  to  care. 

"  How  many  men  have  I  got  on  the  farm  ? 
Three.  Ah,  that's  all.  And  I  shall  get  rid  o' 
one  o'  them  the  end  o'  the  week.  It  doan't 
pay  to  have  a  lot  o'  men  these  days.  We  can't 
do  it." 

The  same  farmer,  always  hospitable  where 
Paason  was  concerned,  had  invited  the  latter 
to  the  mid-day  meal.  And — as  of  yore — there 
was  no  stint  on  the  table.  A  big  round  of 
beef,  a  big  ham,  salad,  vegetables,  two  big 


236  DOWNLAND  ECHOES 

puddings,  a  big  cheese,  and  offers  of  either  beer 
or  whisky  by  way  of  liquid  refreshment. 

The  farmer  garnished  the  meal  with  bits  of 
local  gossip.  In  the  next  parish  a  new  Vicar 
had  arrived,  a  young  man  fresh  from  a  large 
town  parish,  succeeding  one  who  had  died  in 
harness  after  many  years'  quiet  work.  The 
farmer  probably  echoed  prevailing  opinions 
when  he  spoke  about  him. 

"  Do  they  like  him  ?  Ah,  they  doan't  mind 
him  much,  from  what  I  hear.  He  has  some 
services,  too — every  day,  two  on  'em — least- 
ways, all  the  winter.  Plays  golf  in  summer,  so 
he  ain't  so  reg'lar.  Oh,  no."  and  he  shook  his 
head  with  a  laugh,  "  people  doan't  go  to  'em. 
They  do  say  as  how  the  churchwardens  ha' 
told  him  they  won't  pay  for  a  new  rope  to  the 
ting-tang  bell  if  he  wears  it  out  ringin'  it  so 
often.  That's  the  way  they  looks  at  it." 

Then  he  looked  at  Paiison  slyly,  and  ex- 
claimed abruptly : 

"  Now,  our  Vicar — shall  you  be  seein'  him 
to-day,  sir  ?" 

"  I  don't  know.  Perhaps.  I've  only  met 
him  once — for  a  few  minutes." 

"  Ah  !  Well,  if  you  do  see  him,  I  wish 
you'd  ask  him  not  to  preach  such  long  sermons 
—he  does  go  on — half  an  hour  and  more  !" 

Paason  smiled.     The  worthy  farmer  was  the 


THE  AFTERMATH  237 

fourteenth  person  he  had  met  that  day  who 
had  tried  to  make  him  an  intermediary  on  that 
sermon  question.  They  evidently  thought  his 
visit  was  a  glorious  opportunity  for  an  ambas- 
sadorial protest  that  might  be  regarded. 

But  the  farmer,  realising  that  the  hope  of 
such  a  protest  being  made  by  Paiison  was 
fruitless,  added  philosophically : 

"  Not  that  I  mind  him  much.  I  go  to  sleep 
generally." 

Later  on  Paiison  met  William  Budd 
crossing  the  Play  Close,  spade  and  pickaxe 
on  shoulder.  He  presented  a  hard,  grimy, 
soil-stained  hand,  and  waxed  garrulous. 

"  Old  Sally  Spraggins — you  remember  her, 
sir  ?  Well,  she  be  took  at  last.  I  just  bin  a 
diggin'  o'  a  graiive  fur  her.  The  churchyard 
be  full  up  now,  sir  ;  there  en't  no  moare  room 
in  un,  so  we  got  a  cemetery,  just  outside  the 
village,  it  be,  earner  o'  where  Boham's  Road 
turns  up  to  lydds.  'Ten't  loike  a  berryin' 
ground  at  all,  I  ses.  Ah— there  be  a  smaiirt 
few  changes  since  you  were  here.  Amos 
Weedon  and  Jeremiah  Ball  and  Ezra  Padge — 
all  on  'em  gone.  And  Schoolmaster,  too.  A 
never  simmed  the  saame  arter  his  son  were 
killed.  Just  give  up  and  died,  'a  did.  Ezra's 
daughter  married  Jim  Hawkins,  son  o'  old 
'Miah  Hawkins  as  kep'  the  Wheatsheaf. 


238  DOWNLAND  ECHOES 

Jim  en't  kep'  un  on,  though — gone  to  Canada 
'a  be. 

"  No,  sir.  'Cept,  as  I  ses,  there  be  a 
smaartish  few  gone — and  some  o'  the  young 
chaaps  what  never  come  back  from  the 
fightin' — there  en't  much  altered  as  I  knows 
on.  There  was  some  as  said  all  sorts  o'  things 
was  goin'  to  happen  when  the  war  was  over — 
but  they  en't — leastways,  I  en't  seen  as  they 
have.  We  all  gets  a  bit  older,  but  'tis  the 
saame  world,  I  ses,  all  the  toime.  There  be 
ploughin'  and  rollin',  seed  toime  and  haiirvest 
as  the  Bible  ses,  dung  cart  an'  haay  cart  an' 
haarvest  cart,  tater  plantin'  an'  tater  diggin', 
folks  born  and  folks  berried,  some  as  gets 
along  and  some  as  doesn't,  some  as  goes  to  pub 
and  some  as  staays  at  home.  Look  at  it 
loike  that,  sir,  and  I  can't  see  as  we're  much 
better  or  no  ways  worse  off  than  we  was 
afore — 'cept  'tis  knowin'  those  who  are  gone — 
old  and  young — wun't  never  come  back  no 
moare.  Well,  sir,  seein'  you  sims  loike  old 
times — an'  I  dunno,  arter  all  said  and  done, 
that  old  toimes  warn't  best,  lookee — though 
I  did  saay  there  doa'n't  sim  to  be  much 
difference." 

That  was  just  it.  He  put  it  in  his  round- 
about way  better  than  any  philosopher  could 
have  done.  It  was,  in  a  sense,  "  as  it  was  in 


THE  AFTERMATH  239 

the  beginning,  is  now,  and  ever  shall  be."  And 
yet  in  another  sense  it  was  not.  Was  it  the 
aftermath  of  the  Great  War,  or  was  it  only  the 
aftermath  that  the  years  of  any  period  bring 
to  all  who  have  looked  back,  and  loved, 
and  lost  ? 


A    000130045     8 


